


The Beautiful Game

by sunshiner



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blogging, F/F, FIFA World Cup 2014, Femslash, Fluff, Genderswap, Girl Direction, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Unresolved Sexual Tension, YouTube, the Little Mix girls make cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She always gives you thumbs up,” Zayn says, her legs balanced on a kitchen chair and her head inside the cereal cabinet. “She even mentioned you on twitter once.”<br/>“The twitter that features gems of modern literature such as ‘Orange orange orange.’ or ‘Super hands’? And that’s just recently. Adorable and endearing, yes. Significant, not so much.”<br/>“It said, and I quote ‘@thetommoway’s the best way.’ hashtag <i>welovelou</i>.” Not that Louis needs to be reminded. She’s a knock knock joke away from getting it tattooed on her forehead as it is.<br/> <br/><i>or the one with football vlogging, food blogging, salsa dancing, late-night cooking, Brazil sightseeing, way too many bathroom encounters, the recommended amount of unnecessary pining, a bunch of staggering examples of bad stadium etiquette, a Balotelli shirt and a whole lot of snogging. girl!Direction </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hypocorism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypocorism/gifts).



                                                            

 

Despite what Zayn says, Louis doesn’t have a crush. Definitely not on people with the word _banana_ in their urls. Or any kind of fruit, for that matter. Especially not dick-shaped fruit. So yeah, Louis is only checking _bananabaker_ ’s new recipe because her family’s coming to London this weekend, and her mum is always grilling her that she should at least learn to feed herself. This’ll show her. This _tray-baked meringue with rhubarb, cream & toasted almonds_ will prove her that she is a true and accomplished adult and no, she doesn’t need to find a real job. If she had followed the Moyes debacle this season, she’d understand that Louis has more than her fair share of stress without working from 9 to 5.

Thing is, Louis has a pretty solid reason to read Harry’s new entry (and when did she start thinking of _bananabaker_ not as the stupid hipster food thing everyone’s raving about but _Harry_ ’s blog, she has no idea. It might have been that time Harry’s hand had made an appearance in one of her artsy pictures. Harry has really, really long fingers. Long enough to… ugh. Louis sighs. It’s a food blog, for fuck’s sake. A family friendly food blog. Despite Harry’s numerous pussy jokes. Maybe not so family friendly, to be honest. But _still_.) Yes. Pretty solid reason. Louis loads the recipe’s page.

 

_As all worthwhile things in life, rhubarb is rather hard to find. Once you have indeed found it, though, you might be tempted to confine its unique rich and sour flavour to a mere strawberry &rhubarb pie or, God forbid, a rhubarb crumble (the only things to ever crumble are your hopes, your joys and probably someone’s nuts). I’m telling you, don’t._

_What you do want to do to truly treat your loved ones, or simply your lovely self in these long nights of early summer, is make it sweet, smooth and crunchy (I feel like this could be applied to quite a few things. Or, I mean. I guess the crunchy isn’t for everyone, is it?). And what better way to do it than lay it gently on a bed of pearly meringue, mix it with some delicious, velvety cream and top it with some toasted almonds?_

 

Louis has no idea what half of what Harry writes means. She could also make an educated guess that _Harry_ , most of the times, doesn’t know what Harry means. Louis is utterly charmed.

She starts reading the instruction, and immediately goes to leave a comment as soon as she reaches the part about the eggs.

 _How do you whisk, young Harriet?_ donnysoldier91 writes in the comment section, and Louis, as usual, cringes and wishes she’d had the farsightedness not to keep using the username she’d made in eighth grade.

Anyway, even if she were to unravel this whisking business mystery, the recipe remains way out of her depth. Well, she tried. It was an honest attempt. Really.

She dicks around on facebook and tumblr for a bit, until her phone vibrates with a new email. _Two_ new emails. One is a simple notification of someone replying to her comment (she goes to _bananabaker.co.uk_ faster than she’ll admit to anyone, but that’s just because she only has to type ‘b’ in the address bar. Which. Doesn’t make it any less pathetic, wow. Anyhow, the menace wrote _Magic x_ under her comment. Louis focuses on Harry’s usual absurdity and not on the tiny tiny meaningless x and how it makes her heart speed up a tiny tiny bit. And she hasn’t even seen Harry’s _face_ , God.)

But the other. The other’s an email. Aka Louis favourite moment of the week (or, twice a week, lately. Actually, more like every two days. Oh well). It’s from Harry. Because they are... pen pals? Another thing that happened without Louis realizing it. (it was only one private message. Yes, a very funny private message, because Louis is a funny person and might have spent a whole afternoon composing it. Then Harry answered and they just. Kept going.)

So the email. It’s mostly just idle chatter about Harry’s life, and nothing at all happened in Harry’s life since their last email, but she still somehow manages to write half a page about her trip to Tesco. Harry’s very passionate about groceries. Louis might indeed have a crush.

Harry asks how Louis’ doing, if she’s still going to see her family soon, if she’s excited. (there’s also a knock knock joke at the end. Louis ignores it, and doesn’t save it in a file called ‘tax reports’, because she’s sane. And subtle.)

It’s the post scriptum that startles her. It’s not exactly unexpected when you see things in perspective, but her breath catches anyway.

 

_p.s. Months of correspondence with a food blogger and you still don’t know how to whisk? I’ll have to show you, then. Soon, maybe?_

 

And Louis isn’t shy. Quite the opposite. And it’s not like she doesn’t _want_ to meet Harry. And Harry’s not trying to pressure her or, at least, she definitely doesn’t feel pressured. She mostly feels pressured by _herself_ (and by Zayn), because the situation is rather ridiculous.

She’s not shy, but she’s a massive, massive idiot. Gigantic. Gargantuan. She moves her laptop a bit out of the way and drops her head on her desk, because life sucks.

She’s about to drift into a hopeless sleep when she’s reached by the sound of keys in the front door, followed by Zayn’s voice.

“I could hear you sulking from the parking lot,” the fucker shouts before even getting to the living room.

“I’m not sulking,” Louis yells back without raising her head, and it’s a bit hard to be convincing with your cheek pressed to a solid surface. Whatever.

“Oh, Tommo,” Zayn coos when she gets to her side and kneels, hugging her around the waist. “You do not actually _not_ know how to whisk, do you?”

Of all the things to be focusing on. No wonder Louis makes poor life choices; it’s the company. “I don’t even know what you whisk with.” (‘ _unfortunately, not with whiskers_ ,’ her mind-Harry replies. Oh for God’s sake, she’s started making awful jokes at herself. She’s fucked.)

“That’s almost impressive,” Zayn says, gently patting her thigh. “So what’s today uber-dramatic event?”

Louis huffs and twists around to bury her face into Zayn’s shoulder. “She wants to meet me.”

“Tragic, innit?”Zayn laughs, but squeezes a hand tighter against her hip. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, yet.”

“Good. We’ll make a plan, you’ll write something and I’ll proof-read it,” she says and nuzzles a bit against Louis’ head, long heavenly-smelling locks tickling her skin. “So you won’t cock it up.”

Louis straightens up to gasp at her. “I wouldn’t cock it up!”

“I can see your fingers twitching to write her an email containing only variations of the word ‘no’ and some keysmash.”

She might have thought about it. Her mind feels a bit like keysmash. She’s not going to tell Zayn. “I hadn’t even thought about it. And I _wouldn’t_ screw it up. I’d be reasonable.”

Zayn makes an unimpressed face and stands up. “Like the time you reasonably decided not to tell her you’re famous?” she asks while walking towards the kitchen. In spite of the urge to face-palm herself to death, Louis trails after her, because she’ll be damned if she lets her have the last word.

“I’m not famous. I’m well-known. In certain circles.”

“Circles she clearly frequents,” she comments casually while browsing through their cupboards. “As another four millions three hundred thousand people.”

And. It always feels a bit wacky when put like that. “Okay, so evidence suggests she’s seen my videos. That doesn’t mean she likes _me_.” As much as Louis thinks the world would be a better place if she ruled it, a little part of her brain is still awed and genuinely surprised that anyone at all likes her, or that people would choose to spend eight to fifteen minutes a week watching a random girl ramble about football. The thought that _Harry_ might is overwhelming. 

“She always gives you thumbs up,” Zayn says, her legs balanced on a kitchen chair and her head inside the cereal cabinet. “She even mentioned you on twitter once!”

“The twitter that features gems of modern literature such as ‘Orange orange orange.’ or ‘Super hands’? And that’s just recently. Adorable and endearing, yes. Significant, not so much.”

Zayn re-emerges with a sizable bag of weed. Figures. “It said, and I quote _‘@thetommoway’s the best way.’_ hashtag welovelou.” Not that Louis needs to be reminded. She’s a knock knock joke away from getting it tattooed on her forehead as it is. “You up for it?” Zayn continues, gesturing at the weed.

“Whenever am I not?” Louis replies softly. They move back to their living room, making a beeline for the sofa. When they settle down, Zayn starts rolling a joint with skilled movements.

“Plan, then?” Zayn asks, and licks the side of the paper (at that, Louis swallows audibly, because they may be 100% platonic best mates who will never ever, but she’s not blind).

Her throat feels a bit dry. “I’ll either ignore it or tell her I’m not ready. Which is true, by the way.”

“Lou, you’ve been talking to this person for four months,” she lights the joint and gives it to her. Louis takes it, the sweet smell hitting her right away. “During these four months, you’ve gone bungee jumping, entered a snake habitat, kept rooting for Manchester United and wore Tod’s boots without socks. You’re ready.”

Louis doesn’t even remember owning boots, but the rest sounds pretty encouraging. Or maybe it’s the placebo effect of the first hit. “We’ll see. Enough about me, though. How was your day?” she asks brightly.

“Very you-centered, to be honest,” Zayn replies, while relaxing further into the couch and getting hold of the joint. She takes a long drag.

“The best kind of day, then. What happened?”

“Liam called me in a frenzy about the book launch. Apparently they also want banners at the party and needed to send the design to the printing company by this afternoon.”

Banners. For Louis’ book launch. Of the book Louis wrote. Okay. “Please tell me you found a way to slip the sentence ‘One girl, one cup’ somewhere.”

Zayn laughs, but it’s not a laughing matter. Louis is still affronted they didn’t let her title the it. “Nope. I did photoshop your weird eye wrinkles for half an hour, though.”

“They’re not wrinkles, they’re expression lines. They give _character_ ,” she steals the joint from Zayn’s fingers and brings it to her mouth. “You wouldn’t know.”

Zayn just raises an eyebrow at her, and grabs it back. “Careful, I wouldn’t insult someone who’s in charge of your life-size posters.”

“There’s life-size posters? Why did no one ask me about them?”

“The last time Liam asked you what things you’d like to see at the party, you suggested blow-up dolls with your face on them.”

Louis stares dreamily ahead, the weed making her weightless. One day she’ll have an army of Tommo-blow up dolls. “That was a killer idea.”

“Would have gone nicely with ‘One girl, one cup’,” Zayn comments idly, putting out the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table. Why is it even called coffee table? They don’t drink coffee on it. As far as Louis knows, they don’t own coffee. She doesn’t even know how to make coffee. Except that one time she tried to replicate Harry’s coffee angel food cake. It didn’t taste like angel food. Harry probably tastes like angel food.

“See? You get it. Liam’s boring.”

Zayn huffs and slips an arm behind her shoulders, bringing her closer. “So, when’s the fam arriving?”

“Friday morning,” she replies and snuggles into Zayn’s skinny chest. “They’re coming to the book launch, staying for the weekend, then leaving on Sunday.”

Zayn pets her hair lightly, making her mind even fuzzier. “And then Brazil.”

“And then Brazil,” she agrees, still surprised by the never-ending perks of people actually wanting to know your opinion on things, and paying your plane tickets to go watch said things. In _Brazil_. “Did Liam say anything about the trip, or our mysterious travel buddies?”

Zayn shakes her head. “She just said there’s two other girls, one is a blogger she’s trying to court or something, the other’s her plus one. Guess we’ll meet them in Rio.” She pauses and turns to look at Louis, eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t meet Harry before the World Cup. What if you see her and she becomes your plus one?”

Louis giggles, delighted by Zayn’s pharmacologically induced paranoia, the weed making everything seem funnier than it is. “Are you even coming to see a match? You’re probably just going to wander and absorb the scenery and history and majestic landscapes and all your cultured bullshit, and maybe get a tan” she remarks, because it’s true. After, she adds “But no one’s going to steal your plus-one privileges. No getting rid of accompanying me to things and looking pretty, Malik,” because it’s also true.

“Okay. You can do it, then,” she concedes, with the voice of someone who’s had the same conversation one time too many. Louis has no idea how she landed such an ace best mate and how someone that good looking can be so smart and good-natured. Her head is also very blurry. So blurry she starts thinking that she might just do that, just meet her. That’s be nice. But she won’t, she won’t, they both know she won’t. She just cuddles into Zayn, closes her eyes and dreams of oranges, rhubarb and super hands.

 

*

 

“Hello! I’m Louis Tomlinson, and this is The Tommo Way!” chirps a voice that’s definitely not Louis’. A moment later, the actual Louis joins the little girl in the shot, takes her into her arms and sits on the chair placed in the center of the frame, positioning her into her lap.

“Oh, you absolute terror, you!” she scolds, gently tickling the girl’s belly, who laughs and clumsily tries to retaliate. “ _I’m_ Louis Tomlinson, and this menace’s my sister Daisy.”

The girl gives an exaggerated gasp and digs her tiny elbow into Louis’ abdomen. “I’m not Daisy! I’m Phoebe!”

“No you’re not,” Louis replies easily, but after a beat she stops and squints. “Are you?”

“Hey, I’m Phoebe!” another Daisy suddenly appears on camera, and climbs on Louis’ legs. Louis settles each twin on a thigh, and beams.

“I knew it! Ah! You can’t fool me, love,” she says, looking at Daisy like someone who’d gladly let herself be fooled any day, and places a kiss on her hairline, then one on Phoebe’s for good measure. Finally, she turns to look straight at the camera. “Welcome to The Tommo Way! As you may know, my book is coming out today. As I am what you might call an expert at coming out,” she winks at the audience, “I expect the usual things to happen: some support, some criticism, feeling like it was the worst idea ever, feeling like it was the best thing I’ve ever done, but mostly me mum crying at any given chance.”

“I heard that!” an adult voice yells from another room.

“You can’t prove anything,” Louis shouts back.

“Well, it _is_ on tape,” Phoebe says, pointing ahead.

Louis shrugs, and hugs her closer. “Aren’t you the cleverest?” she coos, then focuses her attention back at the camera. “So this video’s just a bit of shameless self-promotion so my publicist doesn’t dump me –Hi Liam, much love, remember it’s not too late to change the book title!-, but more importantly is a huge thank you to every single one of you, also the Arsenal fans, for putting up with me. I hope I’ve made some of your days a bit better. I know you’ve made my life a lot better. So yeah, if you want a piece of the Tommo, or you’re a Man U fan and want something to cry on, or you simply want to place your head on it while you lie on a beach this summer, go buy the book!”

“Go buy the book!” the twins chant together, throwing their little fists in the air.

Louis giggles and squeezes them to her chest. “You heard the ladies. ‘The Tommo Way’, out today in bookstores and on amazon at this link,” a link box pops up on the screen.

“Thank you so much again, thank you for watching today, thank you for watching in general, and I’ll see you next week with some actual footie. The World Cup’s coming up, what are your predictions? How’s our team doing? Can Hodgson pull it off? Is a Liverpool player really a good choice for captain, or for anything at all? Was Rooney’s hair transplant successful? What about the other countries? Leave me your thoughts in the comments, and remember to give a thumbs up if you liked it.” All three Tomlinson lift their thumbs at the camera with toothy smiles.

“Say bye, lovelies,” Louis tells the twins, who explode in an excited ‘bye’ and wave.

A high-pitched voice asks “Did we do well, Lou-iiiis?” just as the video cuts to a page with Louis’ links, then fades to black.

 

*

 

It’s a bit.

Much.

Louis closes the stall door after herself and leans back into it, shutting her eyes. Zayn said this dress makes her arse look spectacular, but that’s a mild consolation when the stiff fabric cages her and she has to overthink every breath, almost afraid she’ll tear it. She should have come in sweats, it would have been more authentic. She glances down at her high-heeled, crazy uncomfortable ankle boots and feels like such a fraud.

There are life-size posters. There are also life-size people, and they all want to compliment her and talk to her and tell her how amazing/surprising/unusual it is for a woman to get such recognition in a male-dominated field, and would she be interested in writing this or that?, and Louis knows those are her fifteen minutes, the only fifteen minutes she might ever get, and she simultaneously wants them to end and to last forever. She just needs for everything to hold still for a moment.

The evening’s nearly over. She’s met who she needed to meet, played nice with a staggering number of idiots in suits, even endured Phil Neville’s off-hand remarks without telling him she doesn’t think he’s literate. Liam ought to be proud. People started saying their goodbyes half an hour ago, and Louis could very well leave with no one caring. With how much time they spent organizing this thing, and how _big_ it seemed when it was all just a project, it’s weird how relieved she is. From now on it’s only a matter of sales and strategies, nothing she can control, and she can’t find it in herself to be nervous, because she trusts Liam and because she can’t wait to go back to making funny videos in her living room and not worry about publishing firms, or photoshoots, or public relations.

And. That’s the point, isn’t it? It is done. She’s _done it_.

She’s suddenly filled with an overpowering wave of satisfaction and sheer happiness, and probably champagne, after all those weeks of decisions and uncertainty and not quite believing it. Who cares about these awful rich men and their sodding opinions about her? Louis’ life is fucking great.

She starts breathing a bit more easily. 

She thinks of Brazil, and wonderful beaches, and full stadiums, and the energizing thrill that only comes from thousands of people getting to their feet after a perfectly executed goal.

She thinks of Harry, of the email she has yet to reply, of that _soon_. If she can make small talk with Sir Alex Ferguson, she can suck it up and stop being scared. She can stop being scared _right now_. She opens her eyes at the realization.

It’s happening. The adrenalin dances in her blood and she can’t get out the stall fast enough, so fast she doesn’t notice she’s run into another body until they both crash against a sink.

“You’re _her_!” the stranger says, animated and a bit too close for comfort, gripping her shoulders and steadying her a bit. “You’re Tommo! Mate, I love you. You’re the funniest, you’re just the funniest. The one about United-Norwich? Sick, mate, and oh” she laughs a bit by herself, like she just can’t contain it. Louis takes advantage of the distraction to take a good look at her. Short, skinny, blue eyes, blond. _Bottle_ blond. Those always come with a certain degree of derangement.

“Yes, it’s me,” she says warily, and tries to put some space between them without falling over. Bloody high heels. “And you are?”

“Niall, Niall Horan,” bottle blond replies with a smile, moving a hand to vigorously shake Louis’. Louis studies possible escape routes. “Huge fan. So great to meet you!”

Louis searches for a polite way to ask her who let her in, and why. She settles on, “Are you a journalist?”

Niall shakes her head, “Nah, mate. Your publicist invited us, Liam, I think she’s called? Well, she invited my friend. She’s a blogger. ‘m just accompanying her.”

Louis wants to point out that Liam also invited everyone else at the party, since she’s throwing it in the first place, but she’s interrupted by the bathroom door opening.

“Niall, did you fall in?” a slow, low voice drawls from outside. The owner of said voice appears in the doorframe with an amused expression that makes her cheeks dimple. Her very, very green eyes widen when she sees Louis and she exhales a timid “Oops”, just as Louis forgets which muscles are used to inhale and which to exhale.

That’s. Long, luscious chocolate brown curls and adorable dimples and the fullest cherry red lips, and a leopard print shirt balanced on a good handful of boobs, and ridiculously skinny jeans hugging legs for kilometers, and Louis thinks she can’t possibly be more impressed with this gorgeous woman when Niall, bless her, exclaims “Harry!”.

Harry. What a coincidence. Harry’s a pretty common name, after all, isn’t it? The world is full of blogging Harrys. If Louis’ heart were to beat faster, she’ll probably throw it up.

“Hi,” Louis says quite stupidly. She gets a sudden urge to go back into the stall and never come out ever again, but the way Harry’s staring at her keeps her rooted where she is. Everything about Harry is so intense, or maybe it’s the blood pumping into her temples and the ringing in her ears.

Harry mumbles something she doesn’t catch, but she can guess it, because when Harry gives her a hand to shake there’s no mistaking the long fingers and the black cross tattooed on the tender flesh between thumb and forefinger. Harry Styles. That’s Harry Styles. Bananabaker’s Harry Styles. _Her_ Harry Styles. _Harry_. And yeah, it is easy to run into fellow bloggers at those gatherings, all of them caught in similar clusters of agents and editors and book deals and publishing houses, but _these things_ – these things aren’t supposed to happen, not without Nora Ephron directing them. Louis wants to laugh until she cries.

Instead, she takes a deep breath and grabs the proffered hand.

“I’m, ah, I’m Louis Tomlinson,” she stutters under Harry’s fixed gaze, their hands still clasped between them, unmoving. If Harry’s waiting for her to let go, she’s overestimating Louis’ presence of mind at the moment.

“I know,” Harry rumbles, her cheeks dimpling even deeper, and disentangles their hands. “I love your work.”

“Me too. I mean, you too. _Yours_ too.” She clears her throat. She can’t exactly tell her about that time she almost set bananabaker.co.uk as her homepage, but she is allowed to like Harry’s work. She tries again. “I read your blog. It’s lovely.”

“You really think that?”

Louis can feel her eyes crinkle. “I do. You’ve not been at it for long, have you?”

“Just over a year,” Harry says, beaming like a Christmas light. “It’s been fantastic. I’m not quite sure where things are going now, though.”

“You shouldn’t worry, you’re going to do great. You’ll be the new Nigella in no time.”

Harry chuckles, muttering a soft ‘I wouldn’t go that far’, while Niall clasps her shoulder. “That’s what I’m always telling her. Harry’s an absolute genius.”

On that, they agree. Niall can stay.

Louis’ about to reply when the door opens once again. “There you are!” Liam appears in all her tuxedoed glory, with an ever-stunning but slightly worried Zayn in toe. Zayn searches for Louis’ eyes immediately, and Louis tries to convey a reassuring message with her eyebrows. In her peripheral vision, Niall is looking at her funnily.

This is the most surreal thing that’s ever happened to Louis, and in the last few hours she’s seen people taking pictures with her bloody life-size posters.

“Stilesy!” Liam continues. Louis is always amazed and a bit creeped out by her enthusiasm. “You’ve met! Tommo, isn’t Harry a doll? Oh, this is wonderful. We should go celebrate,” she widens her arms, addressing the room at large. “Let’s go clubbing.”

Now, a night out with Liam’s posh friends at Funky Buddha, which Liam’s convinced is the only club existing in London and probably the world, is not exactly Louis’ idea of a good time, but- “Sure,” Harry says, shrugging, and that’s that. Louis could try and be rational, but who is she kidding? Right now, she’ll follow Harry off a cliff.

“Okay, yeah,” Louis says. “Just, Zayn, have you seen me mum?”

Zayn looks at her like this is a terrible idea (to be honest, she’s likely right). “Mh-mh. She took your sisters home, said she’ll see you tomorrow morning and to have fun.”

“All in, then?” Liam asks, already bouncing on her feet like she isn’t wearing the highest stilettos Louis has ever seen.

They all agree with varying degrees of excitement (Niall’s definitely the highest, Zayn with the same levels she usually reserves to, well, watching football) and stumble outside the bathroom.

Zayn is by her side as soon as the other three take a couple of steps toward the exit of the venue. “Is she…?” she whispers through her teeth.

“No, she’s a bloody doppelganger” Louis hisses back. She’s way too sober for whatever Zayn’s next question is going to be.

“And what are you going to do?”

“Get royally pissed, for starters.”

That’s as far as her thinking goes currently, in part because she still hasn’t completely wrapped her head around what’s going on, and in part because of the way Harry’s swaying her narrow hips in front of her. Not only she had to be the nicest, most randomly funny person Louis’ ever met, she’s also fucking fit. It’s _unfair_.

She spares a last glance at the stand holding dozens of books with her face on it, the familiar red and white cover she’s spent so much time fussing on with Zayn and Liam giving her a bit of reassurance. She’s so glad she made it Rovers-themed, both not conflicting with anyone’s premier league cheering and having an undeniable sense of _hers_. God, she’s a published author, for fuck’s sake. She suddenly realizes that Harry’s come to see _her_ (she might have been here just to make contacts, but Louis, for once, decides to let herself believe in the best case scenario). It’s… interesting. She wonders why she didn’t mention it in an email, and if she will. If there will be emails to get back to after tonight.

When they finally reach the exit there’s a limo already waiting for them outside, because Liam’s the most efficiently showy person she’s ever met. They all pile in, her tight ending up closer to Harry’s than strictly necessary, and Liam starts pouring champagne before Zayn has even closed the door behind her. “To the Tommo,” she toasts when everyone is holding a full glass.

“To your percentage,” Louis retorts, but there’s no real bite behind it. Liam side-eyes her a bit before chuckling and sticking out her tongue. There’s hope for Liam’s wits yet.

“To Lou,” Harry intercepts, making Louis turn. Harry’s staring at her with eyes impossibly dark, her lips swollen like she’s been biting them. Louis wants to climb her like a fucking tree, the slight scratch of Harry’s denim against her bare leg reminding her at every turn how _real_ the possibility is.

“To Lou,” they all agree, raising their glasses. ‘To you,’ Louis wants to reply, still faced towards Harry. Their glasses click together, and Harry keeps watching her while she tilts her head back and seeps a bit of champagne, exposing her deliciously tense neck muscles, so defined she could _bite_ them. Louis drinks as well, so she can blame her warming cheeks on it.

 

When they arrive at Funky Buddha, Liam gets them in straight away. Ah, the power of connections.

Before she realises it, they’re surrounded by hot, moving bodies, the steady beat making her bounce on her feet without meaning to. The place is more sophisticated and less packed than she likes it, but with Harry beside her, everything else is just background.

Liam’s already lost, while Niall’s leading Zayn to the dancefloor with brisk strides and a hand wrapped tight around her wrist, while Zayn’s following her with uncharacteristic enthusiasm for someone who lives by the motto ‘Cool kids don’t dance’.

Niall and Zayn gets completely engulfed by the crowd just as two hands come to rest on Louis’ shoulders.

“Drinks?” Harry breathes into her ear, hot and dragged. Louis nods, her lids drifting shut involuntarily even while an alarm siren goes off in her head. This is it. If she gets any more pissed, she’ll give in to lust and lose her last shred of sensitivity, the one’s that’s yelling her that Harry’s perception of tonight are unfairly skewed and, if things weren’t easy to begin with, shagging Harry might make them unsolvable.

There’s also a tiny part of her that’s maybe jealous of herself? It’s stupid and sappy, but Louis, at the moment, wouldn’t sleep with anyone but Harry, what with Harry being _her Harry_. She wants to smother that thought, and never have to doubt that everything that mattered so much for her didn’t mean the same for Harry again.

Harry interrupts her useless ponderings with a hand on her hip, urging her toward the bar, and Louis goes, pliant under her touch, her legs moving before her mind. There was no decision to be made at all, was there?

“What do you want?” Harry asks when they reach the bar counter, tilting her head toward her with a smirk.

“Whatever you’re having,” she answers distractedly, way more focused on Harry’s plump lips mere centimetres from hers than their orders. She regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth, remembering a conversation about their liquors of choice. When Harry orders the fruitiest, most sugary thing on the list, it’s clear that she wasn’t taking the piss.

Louis raises an eyebrow at her when she takes the glasses from the bartender and hands her one. She gestures to the poisonous-looking branch of red berries perched on its rim. “Seriously? I don’t even know what this _is_.”

“It’s currant,” Harry takes the twig between thumb and forefinger, lifts it to her mouth, and eats all the berries in one bite. She chews with a shit-eating grin, and licks a bit of juice off her lips. “Aren’t you feeling fruity, Louis?”

Louis’ throat is so dry she almost doesn’t mind the sweet taste when she downs half glass in one go. She’s feeling like finding a bathroom and fucking any coherent thought out of her head, and then some, is what she’s feeling. “Let’s dance,” she says instead and reaches for Harry’s hand, the itch to touch her irresistible. She leaves the rest of her drink on the counter, Harry’s warmth intoxicating enough.

The hand holding is completely useless with the way Harry’s plastered against her back, their steps synchronized as they make their way through the crowd, their intertwined fingers resting casually against her thigh. Except there’s nothing casual about Harry’s tight grip, the light pressure on Louis’ leg bringing them closer.

“I love this song,” Harry announces, her nose bumping into Louis’ ear as she leans forward, hooking her chin on Louis’ shoulder. Louis tries to focus on the music surrounding her -some weird hit from the eighties that everyone in the club seems to know the words to, something that would have made her think of Harry even if she weren’t here to tell her-, but Harry’s started circling her hips, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and it’s not quite dancing, nor full on grinding, but it gets Louis’ eyelids to flutter a bit. She lets herself move to Harry’s rhythm, while Harry mouths lyrics into her neck. _I set my sights on you, and no one else will do…_

“Louis!” Liam’s voice interrupts them. She’s either oblivious or gracious enough not to mention their current position (Louis’ wise enough not to make much of the half-kiss Harry drops on her jaw before straightening up). “And Harry, I was just looking for the two of you,” she says with that smile that makes her eyes as narrow as coin slits. She turns to gesture to someone to get closer and, a second later, a giant camera appears with a poor sod behind it. “I’d say a picture’s in order.”

Liam’s dedication to the art of personal advertisement knows no break. Louis is still eye-rolling when the flash goes off, Liam and Harry standing at her sides, Harry’s and Louis’ hands still clasped together. At least it’ll be an interesting picture.

Liam and the photographer disperse right after, much to Harry’s amusement. “That was-”

“Pure pr, yeah,” Louis supplies, trying to get heard over the loud music. If their cheeks move so close they brush, it’s just for convenience. “Are you her client as well?”

“No,” she answers. “Not yet. I’m, I mean. I don’t. Maybe-” her tone is distracted, her gaze stuck on Louis’ lips, and Louis decides to put her out of her misery.

“Not the best place for a chat. Want to get out of here?”

Harry can’t nod fast enough, and Louis slides her arm around her waist, leading her outside. “What about your friend?”

“Niall? She can take care of herself. She’s probably already got them to name a drink after her and set a weekly Irish dancing night. Yours?”

“No Irish dancing for Zayn, but she’ll be fine.”

The crisp air and sudden silence startle them when they finally reach the exit, like taking their heads out after being stuck underwater. Louis wishes she’d finished her cocktail.

 “Louis,” Harry says simply, her limbs twitching like they’re going to jump out of her skin, and kisses her. Which. Uh-uh.

Harry kisses with her whole body, her arms enveloping Louis’ middle, her hips and torso rocking with every movement of her lips, kisses like she’s discovering something, like she couldn’t let go if she tried. Louis kisses her back, because how could she not, but remains loose under her touch, happy to just go with the program, and every fantasy she’s ever had about this woman is but a faint shadow of the real thing. She wills herself to just enjoy the way Harry’s doing all the right things, but a voice in the back of her head is yelling her to come clean, to put an end to this farce before the point of no return.

When they end the kiss, Harry keeps caressing her waist with her thumbs, and bites her lips, looking positively _hungry_. Louis stands up on her toes to meet her mouth again, Harry’s hold on her sides tightening as she deepens the kiss. Louis’ hands slip into her curls, even softer that she imagined, and presses light circles on the back of her skull, making Harry hum in appreciation. This time, Harry just dives into her neck as soon as their lips detach, sucking on the skin over her pulse point, and all of Louis’ resolve dissipates.

“My house,” Harry breathes into her ear, before nibbling softly on her lobe. “Walking distance. Very cozy. King size bed.”

Louis can’t contain a giggle. “Is it a proposition or a rental ad?”

“I wouldn’t rent my apartment to someone who can’t operate a washing-machine,” she answers with a wide grin that makes her look a bit like a frog (a frog she’d gladly drop on her knees for). Louis mentioned her subpar washing abilities in a random video months ago, and the fact that Harry remembers just intensifies her knees-dropping wishes.

“You’re a proper fan, aren’t you?”

Louis meant it as a joke, but Harry looks at her strangely, unsure. She tries to see it from Harry’s perspective. Louis’ not actually _that_ famous, but there are still people who will sleep with her to get something, or just because of who her public figure is. She’s positive Harry’s not one of them, and wishful thinking leads her to believe that Harry’s instant pull towards her had a bit more to do with _donnysoldier91_ than _thetommoway_ , but Harry doesn’t know that, any of that. Louis’ an awful, awful person, and should say something right now, but-

“I didn’t think I was,” Harry replies, her expression settling back onto a cheeky smirk, and bends down to kiss her again, brief but hard. “Shall we?”

“We definitely shall, young Harriet.”

And it just. Slipped. She might has well had lighted a giant fluorescent sign with ‘creepy stalker pen pal person who doesn’t want to meet you’ on her forehead. Stupid fucking nickname. _Harriet’s not even her name._

Louis braces herself for, well, something, but all Harry says is “Not my name.” and starts heading down the street, a hand loosely circling Louis’ wrist. Louis follows her, wordless, and they walk silently, their arms swinging between them.

It’s.

Harry’s profile is peaceful, her eyes cast toward the sky, taking it in. It is a wonderful evening. And it’s not like Louis doesn’t like silence. She does. She can do silence. Just. Not now.

Louis stops in her tracks, and Harry turns curiously towards her. “Do you mind if I take my shoes off?” she asks, because she desperately needs to check what mood Harry’s in, and because the boots really fucking hurt.

Harry laughs, open-mouthed. “Seems like these boots are not made for walking,” she comments, and Louis would roll her eyes if she wasn’t busy watching her crouch down and put her hands on her ankles. She gently lowers the two zippers and removes one shoe, then the other, and caresses the top of Louis’ cotton-clad feet. She finally looks up at her and hooks her palms behind her thighs, drawing her closer. “Aren’t you tiny,” she says and stands up, slowly, using the pressure on her legs as leverage.

Louis isn’t tiny. She’s compact. “We can’t all be curly beanpoles, Styles.”

Harry giggles, now fully up, and kisses her forehead. “’s cute. You’re cute.”

“I’m not cute! I’m badass and sophisticated.”

“That too,” she concedes, bending down to retrieve the boots with one hand, and offering Louis the other. “Now shut it and walk, we’re almost there.”

“Bossy,” she says, even though Harry’s as bossy as a goldfish, but tangles their fingers together. She has no idea what’s this hand holding deal they’ve got going on, but they both can’t seem to keep their distance, like magnets on a fridge (or, uhm, something a bit more romantic), and she’s not complaining.

Somehow, they do get to Harry’s house. It’s as big as a student apartment in Mayfair can be, but it’s filled with pretty things, all pastel colors and light woods. It’s a 3D model of Harry’s blog.

 “Do you want anything to drink?” Harry asks, closing the front door behind her and depositing Louis’ shoes at the entrance, while Louis is browsing through her crammed bookshelves.

“I’m still traumatised by the currant, to be honest,” she answers distractedly, busy taking everything in. It all feels a lot more real.

Harry chuckles and comes up behind her, sliding an arm across her stomach. “Should I give you the full tour, then?”

By the way the living room/kitchen is organised, the only other thing they could possibly tour is the king size bed. Louis nods.

Keeping Louis’ back pressed against her chest, Harry turns them around and motions toward the kitchen. “On our right, we can see a kitchen, which is rather useful when you run a food blog.” She spins them toward the other side of the room. “On our left, instead, we have a sofa,  a coffee table and a collection of Niall’s music sheets with one of her bras on top of it, because she can’t seem to grasp the concept of not living together anymore.” So _Niall_ ’s the mysterious musician friend Harry’s always on about. Remembering their interactions this evening, she’s happy to realise that there’s nothing to be jealous of. Also, Niall really has a awful taste in underwear.

At last, Harry gestures towards the tiny corridor at one end of the living room. “Finally, that way there’s the bathroom, equipped with a wonderful next generation washing machine, not that you can appreciate.” Her voice drops an octave lower before speaking again, “There’s also the bedroom, with the previously mentioned bed, but you wouldn’t be interested in seeing it, would you?”

Louis raises a hand to her hair, and Harry goes immediately, biting the exposed part between neck and shoulder. “Haz.”

“Say it.”

Louis turns into her arms, startling Harry a bit. The movement is less smooth than she’d planned, but Harry’s fast to get hold of her again, their bodies touching every place they can. When they face each other, Harry’s biting her lower lip, her nails now digging into the fabric around Louis’ hips, but she does nothing, waiting for Louis’ next move. Louis’ knickers are soaked from Harry teasing her since the club, and the dress needs to go yesterday, and her nipples have never been this hard, but she keeps her features set, and she’s never felt as powerful. She wants to discover exactly how long Harry can wait like this, if there’s an edge and if she wants Louis to reach it, if it’s a _thing_. Not tonight, though. Tonight’s about something else. With a smirk, she says, “Take me to bed, Harry Styles.” (she ignores the voice that tells her this could be the only night.)

Harry springs into action, like she’d been waiting for the starting pistol, and lifts her up by her bum. Louis huffs, but wraps her legs around her tightly, as Harry makes her way to her bedroom.

“God, Louis, your arse,” she mutters feverishly, sinking her fingers in it, making her hum. Before she can speak again, Louis shuts her up with a kiss, cupping her deliciously defined jaw. She bites lightly on her upper lip, like she’s seen Harry do, curious if it’s something she does out of nervousness, or if she likes it. The way Harry crashes her shoulder into the bedroom’s door and doesn’t even seem to notice is answer enough.

“You ok?” Louis checks, breaking the kiss. Harry nods frantically, reattaching their lips and gently lowering her on the bed. She climbs on top of her, pushing one leg between hers, the light pressure on her crotch doing nothing for Louis but drive her madder. As if reading her mind, Harry puts a hand where her leg is, grazing her panties with two fingertips. Her whole body shivers.  She reaches under Harry’s shirt, feeling her muscles shift and tense under her touch, then tugs at the hem. Harry helps her take it off, and suddenly there’s the single nicest pair of tits Louis has ever seen, right into her face. As a long time enthusiast of all things breasts, she can say her opinion’s completely unbiased and based on objective parameters. She unclasps her bra. Harry wastes no time and takes it off, throwing it on the floor, then bends down to kiss her again, her bare, hard nipples pressing on Louis’ covered ones.

Louis takes advantage of her momentum to flip them over, landing on top of her, their tongues still moving together. Harry starts dragging her dress higher and higher, until Louis has to straighten up to get it off completely, and her bra with it. Once she’s free, Louis goes back to Harry’s mouth, then kisses her jaw, her neck, nibbling at the skin between right over her clavicle, where she can feel the blood pump under her lips, going lower, lower, lower, till she gets to a breast, and Harry shudders when she takes the hard bud between her teeth, gently licking its tip. When she looks up at her, Harry has her eyes closed, one of her cheeks pressed on the mattress, small husky sounds escaping her parted lips. Louis abandons the nipple just as Harry’s moans get more frantic, eliciting a desperate grunt from her, and kisses her way down her belly till the tattoo of the ferns on her hips, much beautiful than what she’d imagined when she’d read about it in an email. She traces its borders with her tongue, following the up and down pattern, Harry’s body shuffling and quivering. When she get to the end of the second leaf, she sucks harder on its apex till she leaves a red mark, the need to leave a reminder of her passage uncontrollable,  and finally places her face on Harry’s underwear, taking it her heady scent, and mouthing at the slightly wet fabric, Harry’s legs spreading more and more open as she increases the pressure.

She hears it without properly listening while she’s slipping a finger under the hem, but she snaps her gaze up reflexively at Harry’s tone. “Stop,” Harry repeats, propped up on her elbows, her chest heaving. “Stop, I’m sorry, stop.”

Louis sits up immediately, quick to give her space.

“I’m sorry, I can’t, God, I’m so sorry,” Harry continues, clearly talking more to herself than to her, moving to sit Indian style and slump her upper body on her crossed legs. When she raises her head and locks eyes with Louis, she looking like she’s just killed a puppy, stubbed her toe and got the lottery combination wrong by one number, all at the same time. Louis would laugh, if it wasn’t rude and inappropriate. She tries to smile reassuringly.

“There’s someone else,” Harry blurts out, then goes to hide her face into her arms.

Louis doesn’t know of anyone else, so either Harry didn’t tell her, or. Or.

“I mean,” she continues, head still buried. “I’m not seeing someone else. I’ve never even seen her, I’ve never _met_ her. But. Mh,” she takes a very, very deep breath.

Shit. _Shit_. Louis is being cockblocked by herself. What’s the protocol to follow in those cases?

“Uh,” Louis says. “Uhm. Do you. Should I. I’ll. I’ll get my stuff and leave, then, okay?”

“No!” Harry squeals, raising her head, flailing her limbs like a baby seal. “I mean, not if you don’t want to. You can stay. Your family’s staying at your house, right? You shouldn’t risk waking them. It’s late. You should stay.”

That. Doesn’t make any sense at all. Her mum would most definitely take it better if Louis was to come home now, instead of engaging in a walk of shame in front of her sisters. She doesn’t point it out.

“Okay,” she says instead, and Harry hums happily, her shoulders bouncing a little. They’re not the only things that bounce.  “Yeah, I’ll stay. Just...”

“Yes?”

“Harry. Put on a shirt.”

Harry laughs and tilts her head back, exposing her neck and really not ameliorating the tits out situation. “Sure, I will.”

While Harry’s busy finding something to wear, Louis looks around the room. The bed really is king-size, and it occupies most of its space. The theme is the same, all pastel-coloured and pretty, and every shelf is filled with random objects. She’s admiring a remarkable pair of lego-shaped slippers when her eyes land on a glossy red and white striped book cover placed on the bedside table.

“Are you actually reading it?” she asks, taking the copy of ‘The Tommo Way’ in her hands. There’s a bookmark placed almost at the end.

Harry turns to see what she’s talking about, then nods. “Course I am, it’s  bloody brilliant. I got Liam to give me a copy in advance, you know, one of those you send to journalists and stuff?”

“What’s your deal with Liam, by the way?”

“I think she likes me.” She throws a random band shirt over her head. “Hey, how would you feel about wearing a t-shirt that says ‘hipsta please’?”

“Is it a speculative question or did you actually spend money on it?”

 A second later, Louis has said t-shirt thrown at her face. It is quite awful. She puts it on.

“So, Liam.” Harry starts, settling back on the bed next to Louis. “She thinks I have potential. She wants me to starts making videos, get my face out there, things like that.”

“And you don’t want that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. Everyone wants to be famous, I guess.” She lies back on the bed, one hand playing absently with the hem of her shirt, her eyes stuck on the ceiling.

Louis rolls over to lie on her side. “But?” she prompts, twisting one of Harry’s curls around her index finger. They haven’t actually discussed their boundaries, and they probably should, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

“But I don’t want to be publicised for something I’m not,” Harry states, voice firm. It’s clearly something she feels quite strongly about. “I mean, what you did? You became famous exactly the way you wanted to, didn’t you?”

Louis has never thought about it that way. It all just kinda happened. “Well, to be honest I wanted to become the new Beckham, but yeah, I’d say I got the second best way.”

Harry smiles up at her. “Beckham’s overrated.”

“Your face is overrated,” she fires back immediately. David Beckham is a legend and a hero, and the only individual in existence she’ll ever consider going bi for.

The sheer wit of her answer apparently propels Harry to raise her head and kiss her soundly on the lips. Woah. Talk about mixed signals.

After the kiss, Harry leans back again, a smirk on her lips.

“So.” Louis clears her throat. “You wouldn’t like becoming famous for your pudding making prowess?”

“No, that’d be cool. She didn’t even find me because of my blog, though, she saw me in one of Leigh-Anne Pillock’s videos, like, the beauty vlogger?” Fuck, Louis knew she should have searched Harry on youtube. “So I think Liam may want to make it less about my cooking and more about my face, you know?”

Louis doesn’t, but she definitely understands the sentiment. She’ll make all about Harry’s face too, if she could. Make life-size posters off of it. _God, is this still the same night as the party?_ Everything seems so distant. “Nothing wrong with your face, love.”

“You just said it’s overrated.”

“Your humour’s overrated,” Louis remarks weakly, in a clear display of how little she can think around Harry.

Harry giggles anyway, because she’s a fucking cupcake. “I mean, I spend my weekends making tiny fondants decorations and watching cat videos on youtube. I don’t know if I’m the person Liam Payne’s looking for. Or if I want to be that person.”

“I get that anyone who refers to themselves as Mummy Payne not in the context of a BDSM relationship can be intimidating, but Liam’s alright,” she says. She has no idea why she’s just started a rant in Liam’s defence, she doesn’t even like Liam most days. Fact is, she really just wants the world to love Harry Styles. “She’s uptight, but she can do her job and she respects what the client wants. Well, she did with me, so.”

“Mh-mh,” Harry hums in response, her mind lost somewhere else.

Louis disentangles her hand from her hair and brings it up to one of her cheeks. “Hey, I wasn’t kidding about you becoming the new Nigella.”

Harry snorts, but she looks pleased. “I don’t have the bum for it.”

“No one has the bum for it. We’re all just as powerless in front of her floor-length skirts.”

“You could give her a run for her money,” she says, bringing a hand to rest on Louis’ arse, and thus putting them in a position that’s very not good for their no-sex thing. Something needs to be done, and this something is either engaging in a snogging session that will leave her even more remorseful and horny that she is or changing the subject, the room, possibly the continent.

She goes for the latter. “All this food talk is making me hungry,” she states and, by the way Harry lights up like she’s been electrocuted, she figures it was a good call.

 “You’ve come to the right place, Louis Tomlinson,” she proclaims, already standing up. “Let’s relocate ourselves to the kitchen and I’ll rock your fucking world.”

_Already done._

“What are you feeling like?” Harry asks once they get to the kitchen. “Salty or sweet?”

“Salty,” she replies absently, busy starting at the camera perched on a shelf in the corner. An idea flashes through her head and she knows she’ll regret it tomorrow, a lot, but she can’t help herself. “Haz, why don’t you put me to good use, take a couple pictures and blog about it?”

Harry stills in front of her. “Louis.”

Louis frowns. It’s a brilliant idea, if Louis can say so herself. _Then why?_   Oh. _Oh_. Bad timing. “Oh for fuck’s sake-”

“That’s not why you’re here. I don’t want you to think that,” Harry clarifies. “I don’t want anyone to think that,” she finishes with a small voice.

“I believe you. 100%.” Louis spreads her arms and shrugs. “I’d love to be on your blog. And to be honest, I don’t know if our demographics overlap.”

“You’d be surprised,” she replies dryly, then, “Lou, listen,” she pleads, and that look on her face just won’t do.

“Harriet,” she says, because she might as well. “Just take your bloody Canon out.”

“It’s a Nikon.” Yes, a Nikon D7100. With a nikkor 18-140. Louis knows. She’s trying to be casual. _May be a little late for that, love._

Harry goes to retrieve the camera and places it on the kitchen table. “Okay. Let’s do this. Anything in particular that you like to cook?”

Louis pulls a face. “I don’t cook.”

“But you must have tried.”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and starts running around the kitchen, pulling seemingly random things out of cupboards. Louis has never had so many attractive women rummaging through cupboards in front of her as this week. It’s a pleasant development. “This will be fun.”

“Define ‘fun’.”

Harry ignores her, straining to reach something from a high shelf. Her t-shirt rides up, and Louis knew she should have told her to put trousers on.

“Is there anything you do not eat?” Harry asks, distracting Louis from her thorough study of her backside.

“Yes. Carrots. I hate them.”

Harry giggles. Before Louis has a chance to educate her on the undeniable evilness of the _Daucus carota_ , she gestures toward a notebook on the kitchen table. “I keep my recipes there, see if there’s anything that strikes your fancy.”

She picks it up and skims through it. She recognizes some recipes Harry’s already blogged about, some she can’t even pronounce and Louis firmly believes nothing that you can’t pronounce could ever taste good, and some she discards because there’s no way she can manually whisk eggs tills stiff. However you whisk.

She finally settles on something that sounds easy enough, but still elaborate. And you can’t go wrong with chicken, can you?

“What about the chicken stuffed with goat cheese wrapped in Parma ham?” she asks.

Harry turns to face her, surprised but pleased. “Sure, I love that one.”

“We can make a side of homemade mash, too.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but let’s take it one step at a time, Jamie Oliver.” Harry goes back to her cupboard searching, taking out cutting boards and knives and pans. She then moves to the fridge, and takes out chicken breasts and a package of Parma ham. “I don’t have any goat cheese, though. We’ll use mozzarella, what do you think?”

Louis probably wouldn’t notice the difference anyway, so she nods.

“Okay,” Harry starts when everything is laid out in front of Louis. “How do we do this? I mean, it’s not a video, so no one will be the wiser if you don’t actually do the cooking.”

Louis gasps. “I’m not a cheater! And I can do it. Without your help. Sit down and watch.”

Harry plops down on the chair near the kitchen table, the frog-grin back on her lips, and picks up the camera.

Louis focuses on the first step of the recipe.

_Preheat the oven to 200°C._

Well, that’s doable. It’s just turning a knob.

She hears three clicks of the camera in quick succession as she tries to turn the damn thing on. “Harriet,” she says, turning around toward her. “You do realise I’m not wearing any bottoms.”

“I most certainly do, _Louise_.” Another two clicks, right in her face.

“Despite that obscene post about the proper technique for sucking oysters, don’t you think showing someone’s knickers is still a bit, uhm, much?”

Harry _pouts_. “Fine. I’ll go fetch you some. Don’t burn anything.”

She’s back before Louis has time to protest, and she’s clutching a pair of jeggings, a hairbrush and a pink and menacing-looking make-up case. Louis takes the jeggings and shimmies into them, and doesn’t even protest too much while Harry pushes her to sit on the kitchen counter and powders parts of her skin she didn’t know could be powdered. It’s only mildly _mildly_ worth it for the way Harry hums in appreciation the whole time, like she’s decorating a cake and gets to eat it afterwards.

 “There,” Harry says when she’s done, moving one of Louis’ stray locks behind her ear. “Now I can’t title the post ‘Quicky in the kitchen’ anymore.”

Louis laughs loudly. This girl’s the most bizarre being she’s ever encountered. “Please do, Haz, please do.”

The rest of their culinary experiment goes smoothly. There’s a kiss at the beginning, light and giggly, and a kiss at the end, because apparently Harry has a cooking kink. In the middle, Louis has to ask for help only when cutting the chicken breast (“What do you mean ‘form a pocket’                 in the chicken breast? It’s a chicken breast. It’s not supposed to have pockets.” “You just cut it, Lou.” “Cut the breast? I don’t want to cut the breast.” “I didn’t think you’d feel so strongly about the chicken breast.” “I feel strongly about any kind of breast.”), and the meat is just slightly over-cooked (“I’ll photoshop it.” “Really?” “Really.”). Harry keeps saying that the pictures are amazing and, considering that she was clicking on the camera button like it would give free food to puppies in a shelter, Louis fucking hopes so.

“Maybe let some days pass before posting it, yeah?” Louis says when they’re seated, each with a chicken breast on their plate.

Harry takes a bite and moans around it, fluttering her lashes. “This is good. It’s great. I’m impressed.”

“Should I consider a career change?”

“Might as well, God knows you can’t do worse than that time you and Zayn got high and uploaded a video of you smoking an ‘undisclosed substance’.” She mimics the quotations marks. _Ah, the weed video_. Once Louis’ made sure that they wouldn’t be arrested for drug possession, she’d left the video up. It’s definitely one of her favourites.

“Big words from someone who considers knock-knock jokes an acceptable form of entertainment for anyone over the age of five,” she bites back, and she’s pretty sure Harry’s made her fair amount of terrible knock-knock jokes in public settings, so she’s not giving anything away.

Harry lets out a laugh that makes her throw her head back. “You’re funny, Tomlinson. Maybe you can keep your job,” she concedes, and sticks her fork into Louis’ mash, twists it and brings a bite to her mouth. “Why should I wait before posting it?” she asks while Louis mutters ‘bloody food stealer’, which only makes her giggle more.

“Because of the picture they took of us last night. Probably no one will notice, but someone may connect the dots. They’re pretty fucking big dots.”

“You mean like, your tumblr fans?” Harry asks sheepishly.

That’s interesting. “Are you one of them, Miss Styles?”

Harry rolls her eyes, but she’s not convincing anyone.

“Do tell, please,” Louis presses. “Did you ever make gifs about me? A masterpost? Fanart?” her voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe a fanfiction?”

Harry lifts her arm in surrender, her cheeks a bit pinker. “I’m not admitting nor denying anything,” she says with a grin. “But,” she continues, her mouth contorting, “would it be a problem if a rumour about us came out?”

“For me, not at all,” she replies quickly. “Shippers are cute. And, if someone in mainstream media were to take an interest in it, they’d write us off as friendly gal pals. I was just worried about your privacy.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, her mouth doing the frog-thing again. “It’s not like you’re _that_ famous, after all.”

Louis lets out an indignant gasp. “Are you quite finished with the quips at my work?”

Harry just takes a piece of chicken straight from Louis’ fork and eats it. “I am quite finished.”

Louis really, really hopes she’s not.

 

*

 

As soon as she opens the front door to her apartment, she hears it. There’s a distinctly not British voice coming from the kitchen.

“... and then I got them to name a drink, ‘s called The Craic. It was _ace_.”

Louis drops her shoes at the entrance and throws the dress from last night on the couch, while the voice keeps waffling on about cocktails and Irish dancing. She then, gingerly, approaches the kitchen.

As Louis feared, the source of the distinctly not British voice is a distinctly not British hobbit, who’s also wearing one of Louis’ shirts and chatting amicably with Louis’ mum.

In the end, she’d just managed to get a couple of hours of sleep at Harry’s. She _could_ be hallucinating.

“Tommo!” Niall greets her like they’re long lost friends as soon as she spots her walking in the corridor, spoiling the slim chance Louis had at sneaking in. Walk of shame it is.

Louis stops and raises her head to stare at the ceiling and pull her shit together. If this is a karmic intervention, she’s got the message. When she feels steady enough not to commit a blondicide, she waves at the kitchen population at large. Her mum and Zayn chant their hellos with smug grin on their faces.

Louis is not conscious enough for this.

She makes a beeline for the table and takes a seat next to her mum.

“How are you, darling? The party was splendid,” she tells Louis and hands her a plate with eggs and sausages. Louis is still recovering from the second serving of chicken she had insisted on making so Harry didn’t actually have to photoshop the first one (Harry had eaten more of it out of Louis’ plate than her own, it was so annoying it was adorable), but she picks up a sausage, because food in her mouth means no talking.

“I bet the after-party was splendid as well,” Zayn intercepts, with more spirit Louis has ever seen her show before 11.

Louis chokes on the sausage. Her mum pats her back lightly. Shit, they’re having this conversation in front of _her mum_. Louis will shave all of Zayn’s hair in her sleep tonight. That’ll teach her.

 “Well, ladies, I’ll go wake the girls,” her mum announces. She’s always been good with timing. “Nice shirt, love,” she adds, tugging the fabric on one of Louis’ shoulders. Oh fuck, she’s still wearing the ridiculous ‘hipsta please’ shirt. Which means she’ll have to give it back at a certain point. Heat spreads on her cheeks as her mum gives her a knowing smile and makes a beeline for the door.

“Niall,” Louis starts when her mum’s out of sight, and Niall looks thrilled at the simple thought of being acknowledged by her. Good. That’s a trait Louis appreciated in people. “If I wash this,” she gestures at her chest, “and give it to you, can you bring it back to Harry?”

“Course mate,” she agrees easily, shoving some eggs in her mouth. “But you can just wait a week and give it back yerself.”

Louis squints her eyes, frowning. “What do you mean?” She can’t see Harry in a week. She needs time to formulate a plan. It’ll take her months. Six, at the very least.

“Uh, yeah,” Zayn barges in. “We’ve made a discovery tonight. You know the two girls that are supposed to come with us to Brazil?”

Louis just nods, because her throat has suddenly dried up.

“’s us!” Niall chirps happily around a mouthful. “Isn’t it ace?”

Louis turns toward Zayn, who just shrugs at her, then goes back to admiring Niall’s profile with a dreamy expression. Damn pheromones, or whatever chemical concoction is preventing Zayn from realising the gravity of the situation.

Louis does the only reasonable thing she can think of. She moves her plate aside and drops her head on the table.

 

*

 

Harry tweets her in the afternoon and, judging by the message, she must have liked the idea of giving some meat to the tumblr shippers.

Louis replies as soon as she sees it and rushes to follow her, glad she doesn’t have to stalk her incognito anymore. 

After the tweet, she also sends her a text, the first after they’ve exchanged numbers the night before. She asks if Harry wants the t-shirt back before leaving for Brazil, but Harry answers to keep it, that it looks better on her anyway. Louis definitely doesn’t take it as a rejection.

 

*

 

Harry posts the article about Louis the next morning. She passed up on the saucy title, but she did put a disclaimer on top.

 

_Note: I’d like to apologize to all breasts -chicken and not- on behalf of one Louis Tomlinson, for her blatant and inexcusable objectification of your fine species. Much love and appreciation, Harry Styles_

 

Louis dissolves into giggles. She is so enamoured, it’s sickening.

The rest of it is the usual harriesque narration of the preparation method, only with a shit-ton of pictures of Louis. They took a lot of funny ones, but Harry’s opted for those where Louis looks softer, nicer, gently stirring this and plating that. It’s strange, seeing this version of herself. She’s spent so much time trying to be harsh and callous that she doesn’t even remember why, or if she likes it. She does know that she likes that that’s how Harry sees her, or at least how she decided to show her to everyone.

She retweets Harry’s message about the post, just as an email notification pops up on her phone. And that, uh, unexpected. Maybe it’s not from Harry, maybe it’s just spam.

She opens it. It’s from Harry.

She takes a very deep breath. Then gets up to drink some water. Goes to the bathroom. Comes back. Checks all her social network accounts. Checks Harry’s social network accounts. Checks Zayn’s. When she starts facebook-stalking Niall’s band, inspirationally called The Crazy Mofos, she accepts it as a new low and reads the email.

 

_Hiiiiiiiii. You’re probably still busy with your family, but I met Louis Tomlinson. Fuck, I wanted to reach at least the second line of the email before telling you, but it slipped. I went to Louis Tomlinson’s book launch party and met her, in all her glorious, glowy, golden flesh. Do you know her/follow her/worship her? I do._

_In case you didn’t know her, she’s a youtuber who posts videos about football, but she’s so much more. I liked her before because I love football and she really helped female fans be taken more seriously, plus she’s absolutely hilarious. I like her even more now, because she’s a great person to just like, sit and kind of just admire what she's like, if that makes any sense. She’s so nice, like you wouldn’t expect from someone who’s always so sardonic and guarded._

_If you want to watch anything of hers, I recommend ‘_ Why Sir Alex Ferguson should become the new queen of England’ _and ‘_ Fulham, Tottenham, Parma Ham and other stodgy things’.

_Speaking of Parma ham, she cooked me breakfast. It was amazing, I made a post about it this morning, we made chicken. If it’s any consolation, she didn’t know how to whisk either._

_Oh! In my last email I got so engrossed in my quest for quinoa that I forgot to mention I’m going to Brazil to see Brazil-Croatia and England-Italy There’s this publicist/literary agent/aspirant world dominator, Liam, who’s interested in my work and, when I told her my friend (the musician, remember?) and I wanted to go but had decided too late, she told us she was going as well with some friends and offered to organise everything for us. Turns out, the some friends include one Louis Tomlinson. Liam said it may give me an idea of what my future could be like. I’m still on the fence about turning my silly blog into something serious, but I guess she gave me something to think about._

_I’ve never asked you if you like football. Personally, I’m a Man U fan and I also like to play, although I’m rubbish at it. You?_

_Write to me soon, or I’ll get withdrawals._

_Harry x_

 

As if the email itself wasn’t painful enough, there’s another earth-shattering post scriptum.

_p.s. there’s a lot of things I’ve stupidly never asked. Like, what is Lou short for?_

 

Louis closes the laptop. She and her gorgeous, glowy, golden flesh need a drink.

 

*

 

Nothing but an awful lot of sulking –not that she’ll ever admit it to Zayn- happens for the ensuing days. She mostly spends her time browsing _bananabaker.co.uk_ in search for the meaning of life, or at least for some advice, aggressively ignoring Harry’s email, equally aggressively ignoring how Niall seems to be bloody everywhere, and reading review after review of The Tommo Way. There are some negative ones, there are some positive ones ( _‘_ A fuckton more than some, Louis. It’ll be a best seller, for sure’ Liam’s words ring in her head, almost as frequently as ‘ _a great person to just like, sit and kind of just admire what she's like’_ ).

Nothing, that is, until Wednesday. Everything happens on Wednesday.

First, Liam phones her, which is a frequent yet always alarming circumstance.

“Who’s the best agent on the planet?” she opens without even saying hello. Rude.

Louis snorts. “James Bond, probably. Did you call me for a trivia game?”

“Shut it. I talked to BBC radio.”

That perks her interest. “And?”

“And they know you’ll be in Sao Paulo on Thursday, with a journalist visa. They want you to be the pundit for Brazil-Croatia, Moneypenny.”

Louis has to concentrate very hard not to drop the phone.

“I know it’s super short notice,” Liam continues in her bubbly oblivious voice. “And it’s not what you normally do, but it’s a great gig and-”

“Are you pulling my leg?” Louis manages, a bit breathless.

“Uhm. That means you’ll do it?”

“ _Fuck yeah_.”

“...”

“....”

“So who’s the best agent on the planet?”

Louis hangs up on her, but she does send her a flower basket dedicated to ‘Payne, Liam Payne’.

The second remarkable thing that happens is that Louis sees Zayn without a Niall attached to her lips or any other part of her body.

“Did you lose the leprechaun?”

 “Don’t call her that,” Zayn reprimands, sitting down with Louis on the sofa and hugging her middle. Louis sighs. Unprompted displays of affection always bear bad news. “She had work to do tonight. It’s just you and me, Loubear.”

“I hate it when you spend time with my mum.”

“You’re just jealous that she’s super cool while you’re an angry pile of sarcasm and ball jokes.”

“Excuse you,” Louis waves her index finger in Zayn’s face. “I also make penis jokes, pussy jokes, the lot. I do not discriminate.”

“Your mum makes the best food and gives hugs instead of verbal abuse. She still wins.”

“You know, you’re not gonna get whatever you came here to ask if you keep up this attitude, young lady.”

“I didn't come to ask anything,” Zayn says weakly, nuzzling her head into Louis’ shoulder.

Louis counts to 1...

To 2...

To 3...

“Except.” Zayn starts, like fucking clockwork. “Like, I’m rooming with you, and Niall’s rooming with Harry, and we’re all in the same hotels. So, we thought-”

“No,” Louis deadpans. They _all_ thought about it. Louis has thought about it a lot, very much, probably excessively. There’s no way she’s agreeing to it. “I know exactly what you and your manic, brain-bleached girlfriend are planning and the answer’s a big, resounding no.”

Zayn pouts. The fucker pouts, with the cheekbones and the lashes and the big Bambi they’ve-just-killed-my-mum eyes, her raven hair cascading on her shoulders like the branches of a very hot weeping willow. Louis should stop associating with beautiful people that make her do stupid things while losing self-esteem points.

“Zaynee-poo, don’t you think you and the lovely Niall are maybe going a bit too fast?” Louis tries.

Zayn assumes a contemplating expression. When Louis is almost convinced Zayn’s fallen asleep with her eyes open, she speaks. “I don’t think so. I think things will slow down when we get back from Brazil, but, since we’re basically having a summer fling, I think it’s alright if we just dive into this. We’re not doing or talking of anything serious, we haven’t even officially decided if we’re exclusive or not.”

“And when could any of you possibly find the time to not be exclusive?” Louis intercepts, wide-eyed. If they actually do, Louis wants to know their secret.

Zayn lets out a timid chuckle, which is a manifestation of great hilarity in zaynese. “I think we are exclusive, we just haven’t discussed it. We’re being chill. She’s super chill, Lou, she’s just funny, you know, carefree.” She flutters her long eye-lashes at the horizon.

Louis shoves her on the shoulder. “You’re doing the heart-eyed thing again. It’s well disgusting.”

“You know I’ve read Harry’s new post, right? And seen the pictures. I don’t think those _intense looks_ were aimed at the chicken.”

“On that you’re wrong, Malik. I was channelling my inner Tyra Banks, y’know, smizing and shit.”

That sparks an impromptu posing session, the two of them contorting and giving their best Haute Couture expressions to an invisible camera.

“So,” Zayn says, her hands on her waist with her elbows sticking out and her back arched. “Is the answer still no?”

“Bloody hell,” Louis replies while trying to make an uninterrupted line with her head, neck, torso and ankles. “Sure, you can have the room. Leave me and Harry alone in our bundle of lies and sexual frustration, see if I care.”

Zayn gives her a fist bump in response, and lets out a timid ‘Brill!’. Louis knew Niall would be a terrible influence, and it’s about to get worse.

 

*

The thing is, Zayn and Niall’s disturbingly sappy honeymoon phase isn’t limited to sharing a room, but encompasses any waking and not-waking moment of their day, thus leaving Harry as her Zayn. Or promoting Louis as Harry’s Niall. Whatever.

That’s how Louis finds herself seated next to Harry on the plane to Rio. Which means Zayn gave her her business class ticket, the thought of spending 11 hours away from her girlfriend more terrifying than the food served in economy, and if that’s not love. It also means Louis and Harry go from sort of ignoring each other at the airport to sort of ignoring each other in two square meters, which is. Harder.

Halfway through the flight, Louis turns to face Harry and taps her on the arm. Harry looks at her like a baby deer in the headlights. “I have a deck of cards. Wanna play?” Louis asks, because they can’t have a serious conversation here or she’ll probably end up jumping off the plane, and she quite likes this being alive business, but they need to get it together. Harry just stares at her for an eternity, during which Louis tries to remember what the flight attendant had said about the emergency exits, then cups her cheek and kisses her, firm, on the lips. “Okay,” she says when she pulls back. Louis takes the cards out.

So that’s apparently something they do now.

Things get a bit better after that. They do play (Harry’s awful, Louis lets her win), then they try to watch a movie in sync. They keep it up for twenty minutes, laughing at jokes ten seconds apart, till Harry grunts, takes her headphones out and places her head on Louis’ shoulder, her ear close to Louis’ headphone. She falls asleep minutes later, their arms tangled, her headscarf brushing against Louis’ neck (that had been a shock. After seeing her all dolled up for the party, Louis imagined Harry would be disappointing in casual clothes. Or less stunning, at the very least. Considering the way Louis’ knees had almost buckled at the sight of the carelessly open plaid shirt and the headscarf holding her curls, it wasn’t the case.)

Harry wakes up when they are almost about to land. She snuggles further into Louis till she’s fully alert and, at the sight of their loosely entwined hands, something makes her sit up like a spring, detaching herself from Louis completely. Louis has no idea what the matter is.

Before Louis has a chance to come up with anything to say, they are landing, and everything gets more frantic. Harry attaches herself at Niall’s hip as soon as they get off the plane and they sprint toward passport control, leaving Louis, Zayn and Liam behind.

“Did you have a good flight?” Liam inquires with a polite smile. She’s wearing jeans and a snapback, but she still looks like she’s just woken up from an 8-hour sleep under 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. To be fair, Zayn looks like little cherubs massaged her skin for 8 hours, dressed her and sprinkled her with fairy dust and Gucci perfume, so Louis is actually the odd one out. As if her day wasn’t going badly enough.

Zayn slides an arm on her shoulders with a sympathetic grin as Louis mutters a “Brilliant”, and starts walking. It’s going to be a long week.

 

*

 

“Left or right?” Harry asks, gesturing at the two beds.

It’s the first thing she’s said to her since the flight, but honestly Louis is just happy she’s speaking at all. Being stuck in a double room with someone who won’t talk to you would have sucked. Especially when you’re completely gone for them. “Uhm. Right.”

Harry flops on the left bed and starts to remove her boots. “Did you read my post about you?”

Her gaze is stuck on her shoes, trying to act nonchalantly. She knows Louis’ read it, she even tweeted about it. Mh.

“Course I have. It was great, as usual.” Harry is still resolutely not looking at her. “You were too nice, though.”

“That’s absurd,” she retorts back immediately, her head snapping up. “Your work deserves every praise. The cooking skills, instead… those, we can work on,” she smirks, and Louis relaxes.

“I’d like to see your footie skills, it’s only fair.”

“My footie skills aren’t worse than your cooking skills only because your cooking skills are non-existent,” she grins, abandoning the shoes on the floor and lying back on the bed.

“Hey! Rude,” Louis intercepts, “You should appreciate the effort.”

“You didn’t know what currant was.”

“Would you shut it about the currant? And I still think it’s venomous.”

“You think everything with less than 5% total fat is venomous.”

“That is just false. I like tea.” Louis tries to approach casually Harry’s bed and, when she scoots a little further to make her space, she sits down on it. She gives herself a mental high-five. “You are deflecting, though, young Harriet. Not feeling up to the challenge?”

“Still not my name,” Harry nudges the leg Louis has resting on the bed with one of hers. “Tell me where and when and I’ll show you, miss commentator. Don’t they say ‘those who can, do; those who can’t, make videos about it’?”

Louis laughs, her arm moving on its own accord across Harry’s abdomen. “You do talk some shit, love.”

“Do I?” Harry flutters her lashes.

They stare at each other, smiling softly, Louis’ hand stroking her hip. It’s Harry who breaks it. “So, is your schedule the same as mine and Niall’s?”

“Up to England-Italy, I think so. Then I’ll stay here to watch the last two England matches, till the 24th.”

Harry frowns. “What if we go through, though?”

“Of course we’ll go through, we’ll win the cup,” she slides her hand under Harry’s shirt, tickling the skin there. Harry jerks and lets out a loud laugh. “My fangirl side is totally convinced of it. My rational side, not so much.”

“What rational side?”

She tickles her harder, Harry’s eyes filling with tears, her arms flailing desperately in an attempt to stop her. “Definitely not the one that made me agree to room with you.”

Louis stops and Harry settles back down on the mattress, her shoulders still shaking a bit. “Not so much an agreement as a survival strategy.”

“True. They are quite cute, though.”

“I was talking about Liam, actually,” Harry says, her mouth doing the frog thing. Louis wants to kiss her. She realises she doesn’t know if she can, after Harry’s weird behaviour on the plane.

“Haz, are we okay?”

It’s a stupid fucking question, isn’t it? Louis’ still lying by omission, and Harry’s still waiting for a reply from donnysoldier. It’s fucked up, is what it is.

Harry purses her lips. Louis almost wishes she’d voice the obvious ‘no’, it may give her the motivation to tell the truth. Her insides twist at the mere thought.

Harry shuts her eyes tightly and, “Yeah,” she says when she reopens them. “I mean. Yeah.” She props up on her elbows.

“Still no sex, though?” Louis asks jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

Harry wets her lips and bites them, watching her with the same hungry expression of Friday night. Not what Louis was aiming for, but she’ll take it. “No sex,” Harry confirms like it physically pains her to say it. “But.”

“But?”

“Kissing. Kissing we can do.”

Louis can see her uncertainty under the lust. This is Harry giving in. Louis imagines her talking herself out of it, coming up with reasons to keep their relationship platonic, and Louis should stop it, should tell her to think about it and come back to her only after she’s sure. At least, that’s what her rational side says. Despite what _certain people_ think, she does have one, a pretty reasonable one, actually. She just doesn’t like listening to it.

“Then kiss me, you fool,” is what she says instead, and Harry does, and to hell with the rest.

 

*

 

Rio truly is beautiful. They get a taste of it the first evening, all too tired to do much more that eat in the hotel and cross the street to dig their feet in the sand of Copacabana Beach, but it’s even more evident in the morning light, or maybe it’s just the sight of Harry walking on the foreshore, giggling softly every time the water reaches her bare toes and teases the edge of her skinny jeans.

She’s wearing a ridiculous fedora that she keeps balanced on her head with one hand. They had a conversation about her interesting choice in headwear yesterday, which started with Louis trying to convince her to leave her hair down and ended with  one of Harry’s headbands on Louis head this morning. Louis must admit it’s quirky, and not having to battle with her fringe it’s nice. She’s also wrapped around that girl’s finger like plastic wrap on a sandwich.

“Louiiiise, stop contemplating the mystery of life and come here!” Harry calls, turning to face where Louis is sitting and splashing some water in her direction with a foot.

Louis groans. “Haz, I wouldn’t want to be awake right now even if I was still in the English timezone, give it a rest.” She lies down on the sand, her eyes almost blinded by the clear, clear sky above her.

Second later, Harry joins her. “The world always looks better horizontally.”

“We could still be horizontal if someone hadn’t demanded a walk on the beach at the crack of dawn.”

Harry presses a kiss on her cheek and hugs her sideways, putting one leg on top of Louis’. “Do you have horizontal plans for me, Miss Tomlinson?”

Louis has so many horizontal plans for her she could write an anthology. “Nope, just me and me pillow, love.”

“Can your pillow do this, though?” she asks before joining their lips, Louis drawing her up to lie on her chest, their tongues touching with no urgency.

“It’s a very skilled pillow,” Louis says when they manage to detach for a second, the two of them still breathing the same air. “You’ll have to do better, Styles.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. She goes for a deeper kiss, moving her body to straddle Louis’ as much as it’s decent in a public place.

As it’s now customary, Liam interrupts them. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve just had breakfast.”

Louis lets out a whine into Harry’s neck, while Harry clutches her arms around her sympathetically. “Good morning,” Harry chirps, raising her head and smiling like a bloody Disney princess. They both sit up and Harry starts putting her boots back on.

“Morning,” Niall and Zayn chant together, watching them with a blinding smile and a graceful smirk respectively, their loosely joined hands swinging between them.

Liam’s eyes go back and forth between them and Louis and Harry. “It’s like being in the L word. The L word being ‘late’, which is what we are.”

Louis rolls her eyes. “Are you quite finished?” she says just as Harry stands up and tags her up by a hand.

“Come on, Lou,” she urges her. “We’ve got places to see, things to do, footage to shoot.”

“Tourists to make fun of,” Zayn adds, together with Niall’s “Caipirinhas to drink.”

Louis feels more connected to Niall by the minute.

“Okay, jeez.” She lets Harry lift her up, then retrieves her camera bag. “Let’s hurry, lest we don’t find the bloody statue anymore,” she remarks half-heartedly, and they all start walking to their private car (with a private driver, because if Louis has to wear Vans clothing in her videos forever to keep her rather lucrative endorsement deal, they might as well take advantage).

Louis catches up with Zayn in a few steps, and is immediately greeted with a ‘hiya’.

“Hello yourself. Good night?”

Zayn glances toward Niall, who’s animatedly chatting with Harry and Liam ahead of them, and blushes. “Mh-mh. What about yours, donnysoldier?”

“Would you give it a rest?” she grins through her teeth and elbows her in the ribs. “It was, uhm, uneventful, anyway.”

“But nice?”

“But nice,” Louis confirms with an eyeroll, but can’t help the wave of warmth that spreads through her body.  Just sharing a bed with Harry is really, really nice.

Louis and Zayn had reached a compromise the week before leaving: with two full days to spend in Rio,  one will be dedicated to touristy things of the cultural variety, the other to sun-bathing, surfing and such amenities. Zayn claimed she wanted to ‘get a proper feel of the city’. Louis mostly thinks she wants to enrich her instagram profile, but Harry had looked absolutely delighted when she’d told her they already had tickets to Corcovado, so she hadn’t even protested about the early rise. Much.

Their whole journey there, Harry’s spilling random facts about the mountain, and the statue, and the view, so excited Louis can’t resist drawing out her GoPro and filming a bit from the windows of the Trem Do Corcovado with Harry’s commentary in the background.

When they get to the summit, Louis understands what all the fuss is about. The view is absolutely sick. Harry and Niall jump around like kids on a playground, both dashing for the Cristo Redentor, which stands ahead of them in all its 38-meters high glory. Louis remains behind to attempt a good shot of the whole statue, Zayn placidly lighting up a cigarette beside her and giving her pointers. She’s glad she plugged in her new fancy external microphone, so she can keep the audio. Her viewers loooove Zayn’s appearances in her videos. She turns the camera till Zayn’s in the frame, oblivious, busy showing Louis how to get the best lighting, cigarette balanced in the corner of her mouth. The wings tattooed under her collarbones peek out from her loose tank top, which also shows a good portion of side boobs (Zayn’s not wearing a bra. It’s probably a Niall thing; that girl just doesn’t care). Louis admits she can see the appeal.

“Hey, I’m getting jealous over here!”

Speaking of bras. Harry appears behind them with Niall in tow, and Louis would swear her frankly hideous but also rather hot plaid button-up was way more buttoned up ten minutes ago. Her hand slips and the GoPro gets a very zoomed in shot of her cleavage. Thank God for editing.

She stops the recording and they all make their way toward the Cristo, the space at its feet already crowded despite the early hour (Louis’ definition of ‘early’ could be a bit skewed, maybe).

“Selfie time!” Liam announces when she spots them, and suddenly all five of them huddle up and put on their best cheesy smiles. The pic will be on twitter in no time, but at least Louis can’t complain that Liam’s not doing her job. To be honest, lately Louis is becoming more and more convinced that Liam may like her as a person and not only as a monthly check, but she’s not one to take chances. After Liam’s taken the picture with her posh phone, they all scamper off in different directions, Zayn stealing the GoPro to ‘take pictures of the scenery’ (i.e. Niall with various backgrounds, most likely).

Harry makes a beeline for the railing and places her elbows on it, taking the panorama in. When Louis joins her, Harry moves an arm to tangle it with one of hers, their hands brushing. “Our hotel should be there,” she gestures. “I hadn’t realised how big Copacabana is.”

“Ipanema is right next to it, right?”

Harry nods, then croons softly, closer to Louis’ ear, the tune familiar “ _Olha que coisa mais linda mais cheia de graça._ _É ela menina que vem e que passa num doce balanço a caminho do mar…”_. Her Portuguese is not exactly smooth, but it’s still enough to make something hot and liquid pool in Louis’ belly.

“That’s Pão de Açúcar,” she continues, pointing to a non-descript hill. “We’re going there next.”

Louis hums, her eyes roaming around and marveling at how architecture and nature seem to blend perfectly, till she spots a very well-known building. She squeaks, happy to add a contribution to the conversation. “I know that. That’s the Maracanã.”

Harry nods distractedly.

“Haz. Penny for your thoughts?” Louis asks, reassured by the way Harry’s thumb keeps stroking her wrist. The question makes her stop and turn toward her.

“Uhm. Nothing. I’m just.”

“You’re just?” Louis prompts.

Harry turns her body completely, detaching her arm from Louis’ and letting it fall against her side. “I was thinking about my. Uhm. My pen friend? The one I told you about? I haven’t heard from her in a week. It’s weird.”

Uh-uh. Louis’ eyes widen. She’s at a loss for words, and that’s not something that happens frequently in the life of Louis Tomlinson.

Harry studies her for ages, then she just shrugs and puts an arm around her middle, urging her just a bit closer. “I’m sorry for bringing it up. I’m really having fun, Lou. I fancy you quite a lot.”

Louis feels like she’s on a roller coaster that won’t stop. She figures kissing her is as good an answer as any, not to mention she doesn’t actually think she’ll be able to answer verbally.

They snog like teenagers till the others come get them, Liam reminding them that they have a schedule and that she won’t pay their bail if they get arrested for public indecency. Harry and Louis make it their mission to be as obnoxiously touchy-feely as they can for the rest of the day, Niall and Zayn joining them after a while. It only gets worse after lunch, when they all get tipsy on caipirinhas (“Technically, it’s after 17.00 in England.” “Fair enough.”), but Liam eventually surrenders and starts documenting their shenanigans with the GoPro. It’s brilliant.

When Louis checks her memory card that evening, she also finds a picture of her and Harry’s backs, the two of them standing close, their arms linked on top of the railing at Corcovado. She emails it to her phone. She thinks, _soon_.

 

*

 

Checking the memory card is not the only thing she does. While Harry’s taking a shower, she sends a reply to her last email. She tells her she doesn’t know who Louis Tomlinson is, but she’ll check her out. She tells her to have fun, that they’ll talk more when she gets back. She ignores the post scriptum. The sound of falling water from the bathroom is like a guillotine. She’s such a fucking prick.

 

*

 

This one’s on Niall.

They’re knackered after all the touristry, all agreeing on having a quite night, maybe going for a panoramic walk on a beach.

Surprisingly, they do actually start with a walk on Copacabana. Unsurprisingly, said panoramic walk turns into a cab ride that ends with them in a gafieira in the Lapa district, the beat of the samba music drilling their brains, enough to erase any hint of fatigue.

“See, quick quick slow, you’re doing great, you’ve almost got this,” Niall’s saying to a discouraged Zayn, who definitely hasn’t got this.

The five of them are standing in the most secluded corner of Democràticos, drinks in hand, while Niall tries to teach them the basic samba steps (quite unsuccessfully). As it turns out, Niall is not only proficient at samba, she can also speak a decent Portuguese and calculate the rate exchange between real and pounds better than the four of them combined. She likely poops rainbows. Zayn seems already pretty convinced of it.

After a couple of minutes and seven failed attempts, Niall gives up on Zayn, kisses her on the mouth and moves onto Harry, who’s finished her caipirinha and is now flailing her arms around, her skirt ballooning with every motion. Those thighs are something else.

 Niall slides an arm behind Harry’s back. “Haz.”

“Hello, Nialler,” Harry answers, drawing her in for a hug, her giant arms enveloping Niall’s tiny frame. They might have established that Niall and Harry don’t feel anything but sisterly love for each other, but Louis would still very much like to separate them with a chainsaw.

“Hiya,” Niall puts some distance between them, but keeps her arms around Harry. _Maybe with a grenade_... Niall gestures to their feet. “Want to give it a try?”

They give it a try. Harry really has two left feet, her lack of grace not helped by the fact that she doesn’t remember which one’s the left and which one’s the right, but she’s so, so beautiful, laughing hard at every misstep, her hair bouncing wildly. If only the image wasn’t ruined by Niall’s hand a bit too low on her hip.

Louis’ so intent in side-eyeing said hand that it takes her a moment to realise someone’s talking to her.

“Tourists, I gather?”

Louis turns in the direction of the voice and is greeted by a giant pink bow. Under the giant pink bow, an incredibly pretty girl is smiling at her.

They couldn’t be more touristy if they wearing matching ‘I heart Rio’ t-shirts, but Louis is feeling sociable, so she holds her tongue. “Yep. From England.” Well, most of them.

“Oh,” the girl widens her eyes in delight. “I thought you were Americans. I’m from South Shields, near Newcastle?”

Louis nods and offers her a hand to shake. “I’m going to ignore you said that just because you’re a fellow Northerner.”

Pink bow giggles and takes the hand with a firm grip, coming a step closer –‘so we don’t have to shout so loudly’.

“Doncaster, Yorkshire,” Louis continues, pointing at herself. “Do you also have a name, South Shields?”

“Jade. Do you?”

Louis smirks. “Course I have a name, everyone has one.”

“Okay,” Jade shakes her head, chuckling softly. “Would you like to dance, Yorkshire?”

“Sure,” Louis answers with a shrug, and ignores the feeling of Harry’s eyes on her back as Jade leads her to the middle of the dancefloor.

“I have no idea how to do this,” Louis yells into Jade’s ear when they find a spot, the music now all-encompassing, kicking all the bodies into motion like a spell.

“Follow the music,” Jade tells her, her breath hot on her neck. “And follow me.”

Jade’s good. Not that Louis can judge her technical skills, but she seems to know what she’s doing and keeps everything basic enough for Louis to match her steps after some trial-and-error. Louis spends the first song staring at her feet and checking she’s doing the right thing but, when the band switches to an even quicker rhythm, Jade holds her closer and circles her hips, interrupting any pretence of real samba dancing. “Just go with it, just relax.”

Louis does. She closes her eyes and lets her body rock in time with Jade’s, her arms gripping her narrow hips. She can’t help wishing she was holding someone taller, with curlier hair and deeper voice. And bigger boobs. She could write a poem about Harry’s boobs. She _should_ write a poem, they are certainly worthy of it.

She doesn’t have to wish for long. As soon as the song ends, a hand lands on her shoulder, making both of them turn. Harry. _As if it was ever a question_.

“May I have this dance?” Harry asks in a hoarse rumble, her gaze stuck where Jade’s still holding Louis.

Jade searches for Louis’ eyes, and Louis shrugs apologetically, smiling with gritted teeth. Jade smirks, “And that’s my cue to leave. _Valeu_ , mystery girl.”

“Whatever that means,” Louis replies, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Not that she wants to torture Harry, but the way Harry’s grasp on her shoulder immediately tightens gives her a shock of pure satisfaction.

Jade winks at her and fuck, _if Louis’ had been alone_. But she’s not, and Jade takes a step back and starts walking away from them, her pink bow soon swallowed by the dancing crowd.

“Hi, _querida_ ,” Louis greets Harry when Jade’s out of sight, turning to face her and throwing her arms around her neck.

Harry just dives in for a kiss, her hands moving to Louis’ hips, thumbs sliding under her t-shirt. Louis responds with the same eagerness, stroking the silky material of her headscarf. This time, they don’t even pretend to move in time with the music.

“Do you know what you do to me, Louis?” Harry exhales when they separate, kissing and licking and biting from her ear to her neck and back.

 _Do you know what you do to_ me _, you sodding bananabaker?_

Louis just nods, frantically, because what they do to each other must be pretty similar, at this point. She pushes on the back of her neck till they’re kissing again, and she takes Harry’s upper lip between hers and sucks, causing Harry to slide her hands to her bum and _squeeze_.

She barely has time to come up for air when Harry starts leading her toward what Louis guesses is the loo. This is not going to end well.

“That girl,” Harry says after she’s closed the door of a stall behind them. “She was fit.”

“Not as fit as you.” Louis takes her face between her hands and dives in again, trapping her behind her body and the door, standing on her toes to get a better angle and rub their chests together.

While they’re still kissing, she feels a hand fumble with the button of her jeans and slip inside till Harry’s cupping her through her panties, her middle finger settling on her slit.

“I want to fuck you so bad, Lou,” Harry whines, placing her forehead over Louis’.

Louis’ muscles clench against Harry’s finger without her permission. “Shit. Me too. But,” she shakes her head, and Harry bends down to bury hers in her shoulder.

“No sex,” Harry finishes against her skin, and drops a kiss on it, retrieving her hand from Louis’ jeans and placing it on her side.

Louis tangles her fingers in her curls and caresses them, making Harry moan softly. “Nothing’s changed from yesterday. Whatever it is,” as if Louis didn’t know. When did she get this good at bullshitting? She clears her throat. “Whatever it is you’re waiting for, I’m sure it’ll be over soon.”

Harry lifts up and looks at her with big eyes. “Okay,” she nods, and kisses her again.

“Okay,” Louis repeats when they detach. She has no idea what they’re okaying to. “Maybe we should sleep in separate beds tonight,” she tries, because there’s a limit to how many times they can stop something they can both want, and having it at arm’s reach definitely isn’t helpful.

Harry seems taken aback, but agrees. “Yeah. Yes. Separate beds. Okay.”

“Mh-mh,” Louis hums. “Wanna go back inside and find the others?”

“Yeah,” Harry says with the expression of someone who wants nothing less, but she turns and gets out of the stall. Louis waits for the door to close behind her, so she can lean her head on it and take some very, very deep breaths. 

 

When they get back to the hotel, they spend a good five minutes standing still in the room and looking everywhere but at each other.

Harry is the first to snap out of it. She takes her pyjamas and goes to undress in the bathroom, while Louis does the same in the room. When Harry gets out, she goes in without sparing her a glance, in an attempt to minimize the chances of temptation.

When she’s ready for bed, she goes back in the room to find Harry already under the covers, doing a pretty piss-poor job of pretending to be asleep. She’s not one to talk about pretending, so she just makes a beeline for her bed and, once she’s settled, concentrates super hard on giant religious statues and incoming football matches and pink bows.

She’s already drifting off when she hears, “Lou.”

“What,” she calls out, absent-mindedly.

There’s a rustling of sheets and a padding of feet on the floor and, when Harry speaks next, Louis’ already moving to make space for another body in the bed. “Or we could, like, cuddle,” she mutters. Louis opens her eyes to take in her sheepish, lovely expression, clear even in the darkness. “Like, with our clothes on.”

Cuddling with their clothes on, right.

Louis lifts the edge of the duvet, and tries to keep the corners of her mouth from lifting up.

 

*

 

Wednesday is their beach day. And Louis loves going to the beach. She wakes up and gets up almost straight away, without cursing her alarm clock or anything. That’s how much Louis loves going to the beach.

She can almost taste how good it’s going to be, the sun, the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping at the shore, a bikini-clad Harry to admire all day long... The thought is so comforting she doesn’t mind that Harry’s already left. Louis will see her soon enough.

She hurries to shower and get dressed, putting on her skimpiest swimsuit and a sundress that’s most likely Zayn’s, and goes downstairs with a skip in her step. She forgoes breakfast entirely and walks as fast as she can to Copacabana, where Liam, Niall and Harry are already sprawled on towels. Harry’s lying on her front with a book in her hands and headphones on, the strings of her yellow bikini top only tied around her neck.

“Good morning everybody,” Louis chirps when she gets to them.

Liam greets her with the same cheerfulness, while the other two only mumble a ‘hi’ under their breaths, without raising their eyes. That’s just weird. She remains stuck where she’s standing with a frown on her face, not quite understanding what’s going on. That is, until Niall lifts her head and tells her, with a cutting voice Louis didn’t think she possessed, “Mate, you’re blocking my sun.” Niall’s currently wearing a white t-shirt up to her knees and a layer of sunscreen that wouldn’t let gamma rays go through.

Niall’s remark doesn’t help Louis’ comprehension of the situation, quite the opposite, but at least it gets her to move. She settles her towel next to Harry’s but, even when she’s undressed and laid down, Harry just flips a page, not sparing her a glance.

Well. Louis won’t let their bad mood ruin her perfect tanning experience. She sends a quick text to Zayn, who’s probably still comatose, and checks the time (20 minutes on the front, 20 minutes on the back, that’s her mum’s technique), then lays her head on her crossed arms and closes her eyes.

She drifts off until Zayn’s feet nudges her on leg. She opens her eyes and squints them, the sun even brighter than before, while Zayn sits down on Harry’s towel. Harry’s not there, nor are Liam and Niall.

“Hiya,” Zayn tells her, lighting up a cigarette.

“Hello.” She sits up and snatches the fag from her grasp, putting it between her lips. “Do I smell?”

Zayn, cool as a cucumber, lights up another one. “You smell as fresh as a day of spring on a mountaintop,” she deadpans. “Niall told me they’re taking a walk.”

Louis sighs. “Well, Niall told me I was blocking her sun.”

“Really?” Zayn giggles around a mouthful of smoke, because she’s a bad person. “And where you?”

“How could I? All the girl’s missing is a parasol and a nuclear shield.”

“Her skin’s very delicate.” Zayn takes a contemplative drag. “’s strange, though. Niall likes you, she thinks you’re as brilliant as the inventor of Guinness or somewhat –we were well pissed when she told me.”

“This is,” Louis purses her lips, “oddly flattering, I guess.”

Zayn flicks her on the shoulder. “Course it is. What did you do, then?”

“Nothing,” Louis whines. “Harry and I were fine last night.”

“You didn’t tell Harry she looks like Susan Boyle, right? She’s sensitive about that shit.”

Louis blinks and frowns and pulls a generally confused/appalled face. “No, Zayn, I haven’t told her she looks like a middle-aged woman with a double chin. It’s not even true.” The large mouth, maybe. The shape of her face, imagining how she must have looked at twenty... Okay, Louis can kind of see it, but _still_.

“Okay then,” Zayn concludes, putting out the cigarette on the sand. “Let’s see how the rest of the day goes.”

 

The rest of the day goes like utter shite.

Harry just can’t seem to have it in her to be mean, so she either avoids Louis or gives her desperate deer in the headlights stares, which is even worse. Niall remains defensive, even though she relaxes a bit and just can’t hold in a laugh whenever Louis says something particularly funny. Which is often, because Louis’ a pro. Take that, Arthur Guinness.

Still, something’s very deeply wrong, and it’s throwing off their whole balance as a group. It’s not like Louis’ unaware that she can be rather abrasive, but she usually knows what she’s done to deserve the silent treatment.

She’ll find out soon, though. At Liam’s insistence (not that anyone else put up much of a fight), they’re going clubbing tonight, and alcohol clearly makes Harry horny and loosens her up, so something’s bound to happen, for better or for worse.

It’s getting there that’s challenging. Harry and Louis still have to share a room, and their lack of interaction is unbearable. Louis turns the telly on to cover up their silence a bit, so she doesn’t go out of her mind.

She’s brought the dress she had at the book launch, which Harry had liked well enough. She figures there’s no better day to wear it, and she’s right. Harry gives her a good once over when she spots her, covering her bottom lip with her teeth, only to catch herself and sprint toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Louis decides to take it as a good sign.

Niall picks the club, most likely from Harry’s suggestion, because the place’s gritty and loud, with an alternative, rock vibe to it. As expected, Harry’s little hipster heart feels right at home as she plunges into the buzzing swarm of bodies on the dance floor and starts prancing around in her clumsy limb-flailing manner. Louis stays by the wall, sipping a badly mixed drink and trying to catch as many glimpse of Harry as she can.

She waits for Zayn to join her, probably in overdrive after being pushed in more aggressively social settings in the last ten days than in the last two years, but it’s Niall that plants herself by her side, her cheeks already flushed.

“Talk to Haz,” Niall yells in her ear. “And no getting sloshed.”

She takes Louis’ glass from her hand, shouts ‘Cheers, mate’, downs it in one go and disappears.

Okay. Talk to Haz. Talk to Haz. Sounds easy enough. If Niall said so, Harry’s not going to strangle her with her headscarf. Is she?

Well, only one way to find out. She launches herself in the direction where she’s last seen Harry and jostles to go forward, when she spots a curly head with a skulled scarf wrapped around it. She’s never been more grateful for Harry’s weird obsession with headwear. She speeds up till she can almost touch her, and follows her. Harry makes a beeline for the exit, which is fine enough for Louis. She’s just happy this encounter’s not going to happen in a bathroom.

As soon as Harry steps outside, Louis grabs her arm. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Harry remains fixed where she is, her arm limp under Louis’ hold.

“What have I done?” Louis continues, her voice breaking a little.

At that, Harry throws her head back, then spins around. Her eyes are wide and damp when they meet Louis’. “Why me?”

Louis lifts her eyebrows. This is unexpected. “What?”

 “At your book launch,” Harry continues, taking a step toward her. “Why me? Everyone was all over you at the party. You could have had anyone. Same as Funky Buddha. Everyone is always all over you, Louis,” she lets out an open-mouthed breath, “even if you can’t see it.”

And that. Even with all the scenarios she had envisioned, this isn’t close to anything she’d prepared for. Because she’s a complete cretin and it’s her to-go strategy, she resorts to lifting all her guards up.  “I don’t know what you want me to say, Haz. You were hot, end of story.”

Harry lets out a frustrated groan, and shakes her head. “I want you to tell me the truth, for once,” then, through gritted teeth, “And don’t you ever, ever imply that this is only physical.”

Everything in Louis screams that she’s about to say something she’ll regret, but she always needs to be the more aggressive one during a fight, always the one to leave more marks. “Then what is it? We’ve known each other for less than a week,” she spits. “It’s nothing.”

Harry’s mouth opens in pure incredulity and she snorts. “A week? Louis, are you serious?” She stumbles back, and widens her arms. “I’ve given you all the chances to tell me. I know. I’ve known since the morning after the book launch, when I googled you and found your date of birth. Not many Lou from Doncaster born on the 24th of December 1991.” Her last words are just a murmur, and she doesn’t even look angry anymore, just disappointed. Louis doesn’t know if she’ll ever move again. Her body’s all a tingle, like her heart’s everywhere and is pulsating hard enough to make her explode.

Harry sighs. “That email, Lou. Where you planning on never telling me? On just gradually killing off your virtual persona?”

 _No_ , she should scream, because it’s the truth, because she’s never even dared to think of how things could be after, but she’s sure she wouldn’t be able to keep something like this from her. “Why didn’t you say anything?” is what she manages, instead, in a feeble shadow of her voice.

“Why didn’t you?” Harry fires back immediately.

Louis should have an answer. She’s rationalised her reasons to the death, she should have a fucking answer when it counts, but nothing but hot air comes out of her mouth.

When Harry speaks again, her tone is firm and cold. “I’m going to take a cab. You go back inside and wait,” she hisses. “You _wait_ till after I leave. Then do whatever you want. Just, do not bother me.”

Louis stays rooted on her spot, not because she wants to, but because everything’s moving so fast, and it needs to slow down and give her time to _think_ , think about anything that will let Harry stay and stop looking at her like that, but when Harry closes her eyes and pleads her, dejected, to _just fucking go, Lou, please_ , she does. She gets back inside and rushes to a bathroom, where she proceeds to spend ten minutes dry heaving on a toilet. At least Harry can’t say she hasn’t waited.

After that, she goes back outside and sinks on the pavement with her back against a wall, waiting for one of the other three to re-emerge or for the earth to swallow her whole. 

When she finally gets back to their room, Harry’s already sleeping, the covers thrown over her head.

When she wakes up, every trace of her is gone.

 

*

 

The arrival and first day in Sao Paulo pass in an awful haze. Harry just won’t look at her, unapproachable with Niall hovering over her like a guard dog (more a Chihuahua than a Rottweiler, to be honest, but she could still chop one of her fingers off if given the chance. Louis is pretty attached to her fingers), and even Liam and Zayn treat her weirdly. Liam’s probably just pissed Louis’ messing up her chances to land Harry as a client, while Zayn just seems tired and at a loss for what to do.  Louis can sympathise. Personally, she’s exhausted.

Not even the electric atmosphere of the Arena is able to soothe the knot in her gut, the noise of the crowd beginning to fill in the stadium only heightening her nervousness. And fuck, live commentating is _hard_. She comments matches for a living, but she has time to think about what she wants to say beforehand and she can always edit them if something sounded better in her head. She doesn’t know if she can’t be equally brilliant on the spot.

Liam’s text telling her to ‘ _not fuck it up’_ doesn’t help, either.

She relaxes a bit when she gets to the BBC booth, because she loves the main commentator, Jesy Nelson (and she brought a copy of her book to make her sign. Louis’ never said she’s immune to flattery.), and because she’s truly about to comment a match _on fucking BBC radio_. People are going to listen to her. _Her mom’s going to listen to her_.

Before she can conclude her little epiphany, she gets dragged in a blur of meetings with the producers and sound checks and _do not press that button, Louis_ (she does. It makes several microphones screech violently, and a gang of uptight men in suits jump up. The sound technician now hates her, but Jesy laughs in delight and high-fives her, and Liam’s always lecturing her that pr between colleagues is important, so).

The actual match is a dull and predictable affair (and it started with an own goal from the home team, so that’s saying something), but she has the time of her fucking life, bantering back and forth with Jesy, making all the vanishing foam jokes she can get away with, well, her mom listening and not thinking about Harry sitting somewhere in the stadium.

It mostly works.

 

*

 

There’s Zayn’s stuff in her room. Not that she’s surprised. But she’d hoped- she doesn’t even know what.

The actual Zayn is nowhere to be seen. Louis should have called them when she’d finished at the Arena. Or when she’d finished talking to her mum. She should call them now, and go meet them.

But she’s so, so tired.

She kicks her shoes off and slips under the covers of her bed without undressing, bringing the duvet up to cover her head.

Tomorrow will be better.

 

*

 

To be fair, things _are_ looking a bit better the next morning. For starters, Zayn’s in the room, walking around in only her underwear, which is always a good thing to wake up to.

“Morning,” she says, voice raspy with sleep.

“Morning, BBC star,” Zayn replies and comes to sit on Louis’ bed. “How are you feeling?”

Louis groans, clutching a pillow between her arms. Zayn reaches out to pet her head.

“I feel,” she clears her throat, “like I’m watching a loop video of all the bad things I’ve done in my life, while wearing my worst pair of period underwear, in front of everyone I know.”

Zayn blinks. “I’m glad to see at least your theatricality is good as ever.”

“That sounds like a mean word,” she pouts, even though she knows what theatricality is, mostly because there could be her face on its entry in the dictionary. “Don’t be mean to me.”

“I would never,” Zayn says, the filthy liar. “How was yesterday, then?”

 _Good change of subject._ “It was sick, Zee. Fucking sick.” The memory is enough to make the high rush through her veins. “I want to do it again. And Jesy Nelson was so great to comment with, and she’s hotter in person, and I think she liked me.” Speaking of. “Zayn, did they like it? I haven’t heard from Liam yet. Actually, I only spoke to my mum, and she’s not a very reliable source of criticism. Do you know anything?” she urges Zayn, who’s looking more amused by the second.

“Liam bought champagne for everyone last night, so I think you killed it, mate. No one would drown bad news in that much Cristal.”

So they had a proper celebration without her. Did they also meet David Beckham and had him autograph their arses for good measure?

Zayn must sense her uneasiness, because she continues, “We thought you’d call, Lou. We didn’t want to interrupt if you were still at the Arena, or had gone out with the BBC peeps. We weren’t trying to be dicks.”

“I know,” Louis concedes with a sigh.

Zayn pokes her cheek with a finger. “Are you ready to talk about Harry?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be,” she says with an eyeroll. “But we can try.”

Zayn makes a ‘go on’ motion with her hand.

“What, me? I thought you had intel from Niall.”

“First I want to know your version of the story.”

“Unless there are murders of children involved, I think Harry’s version’s pretty accurate.”

“Harry’s, probably,” she smirks, “but I’ve heard Niall’s. It was colourful.”

Louis can imagine. “Fine,” she concedes, and pours her tiny, caustic heart out.

At the end of her tale, Zayn hums and rubs her chin between thumb and forefinger.

“So?” Louis prompts. “Should I just wait or should I do something?”

“Do something,” Zayn answers, with conviction. “But, uhm, she already thinks you’re barmy, what with the lying to her face thing, so maybe, like, do not get a tattoo of her face on your chest or anything like that, yeah?”

Louis frowns and lifts an eyebrow. “Zayn, you literally have a tattoo of your ex-girlfriend on your bicep.”

“Case in point.” She rubs her arm defensively, right where portrait-Perrie’s body sits. “Just, go easy on the romantic gestures, maybe? Like, you could try sitting her down and explaining your reasons?”

“You mean, like an adult conversation?” Louis pulls a face.

Zayn hums and pats her hair, twice. “Attagirl.”

Matter resolved, Zayn lies down next to Louis and they just stay there, without speaking. Zayn should have learned by now that leaving Louis alone with her head never leads to anything she approves of but, this time, when the metaphorical light bulb flashes in her mind, Louis thinks even Zayn will be satisfied with a result. It’s probably the least dramatic thing Louis’ planned in her life, and for that alone it feels revolutionary. “Actually,” she tells Zayn with a grin, “I have a better idea.”

Zayn just groans and brings up an arm to cover her eyes. “God help us all.”

 

*

 

Since Harry and Niall have conveniently gone golfing, Louis and Zayn end up meeting up with Liam for lunch, then Zayn drags them from boring museum to _boringer_ museum. Liam and Louis can’t protest, since they’ll be back in São Paulo again, while this is Zayn’s only chance to admire the most coma-inducing places the city has to offer.

It gives Liam and Louis plenty of time to share bonding moments on any couch and chair in their proximity and to talk in high-pitched and excited tones (mostly Liam) about Brazil-Croatia and BBC and future job perspectives.

So, at the end of it, they may not be welcome in the MASP anymore, but Zayn’s rambling about _art_ and _new perspectives on life_ and _the sheer brilliance of humanity_ –and it’s nice to see shy and cautious Zayn open up about all those things she’s truly passionate about, even though the other two have no idea what she’s saying half the time-, and Liam is full of plans, she feels they can go higher, make it bigger, and Louis finds a bit of her levity back.

When they get back to their hotel, she sits down, and writes.

 

*

Since it all started with one, it’s only fitting for it to end with an email. Louis hopes Harry will appreciate the circularity, or get wound up enough to come and yell at her face. Anything that’ll make her acknowledge Louis’ presence.

She’s been composing it in her head for the best part of the day, Zayn’s cultural tour of horror offering plenty of time for meditation, but when she’s faced with the black bar blinking on the blank page she realises there’s not much she wants to tell Harry without standing in front of her.

It’s not like this that she wants to explain herself, the written word having lost all its meaning since their first night. No justification from Louis’ will sway her of a millimetre unless she’s willing to be swayed and, if she is, she’ll listen to what Louis has to say. So that’s what Louis asks for.

 

_Dear Harriet,_

_can we talk?_

_Love,_

_someone who fancies you quite a lot too_

 

*

 

The air of Manaus clings to the skin like a drop of red wine to white Sunday clothes. Louis gets a bit woozy as soon as she gets off the plane, her hair beginning to stick to her forehead just for the short walk to the terminal. People like Louis were not made for climates like this, unless they are lying on a beach lounger with cold drinks in their hands.

It’s fucking hot.

Harry is in a good mood today. She’s still not speaking to Louis, nor meeting her eyes, nor betraying any awareness that Louis’ in the same continent as her, but she’s babbling happily, overcome by the football fever that’s infesting the whole country, rising higher and higher with each match.

Louis kind of wants for her to just shut up. Between the humidity, Niall side-eyeing her like she killed a puppy and made her eat it, and Harry’s deep, mollifying voice talking about Louis’ favourite subject ever and doing unpleasantly arousing things to her, Louis is ready to go lie in a corner, possibly in the shadows, and cry for her mum.

Louis still has enough dignity not to do it. She spots a bench in the baggage claim area and marches towards it like it’s an oasis in the desert. She sits down and brings her legs to her chest, hugging them. Liam can take her luggage. God knows she pays her enough for it.

Fuck. Louis should have eaten that sandwich on the plane. Even if it seemed potentially radioactive.

“Are you, uhm,” someone asks gingerly from way closer than Louis’ wishes for anyone to currently be. And it’s a very wrong someone. Louis sticks her face between her knees.

“Are you okay?” Harry finishes, touching her shoulder lightly.

“Does it look like it?” Louis whines, voice muffled, because she truly can’t help being a jerk ever. “Low blood pressure. Not a medical emergency.”

What follows is a pause so long she almost thinks Harry’s left. She hasn’t. “I, uhm, have some water? The water bottles they gave on the plane? Maybe you should,” Louis can almost hear her swallow, “drink some.”

The thing is, Louis is really fucking thirsty. She nods into her knees. Whatever she’s done to deserve it, this is a bit bloody excessive.

Harry takes a seat next to her. “Raise your head, maybe?”

Louis does, little by little. She opens her eyes and her vision’s not blurred anymore, always a comforting sign. In her peripheral vision, Harry’s holding an open water bottle.

“Here,” Harry passes her the bottle once Louis’ steady enough to look at her, taking in her encouraging smile. Probably just a gesture of compassion.

Louis takes it and, after the first sip, her brain no longer feels like it’s going to implode. Only problem, it can now register that Harry’s sitting next to her, staring expectantly, and Louis doesn’t have a plan ready for this situation. She gulps more water.

“Better?” Harry asks and lifts a hand to Louis’ back, then retrieves it, then reaches out again, then tries to put it back in between them, then shrugs and places it behind Louis’ neck.

At least Louis’ not the only one without a plan.

The other three soon join them with their luggage in tow, and Liam plants her feet in front of Louis. “You don’t look too good,” she supplies, helpfully, then checks her watch. “It’s still early. I know our plan was to stay out directly, but perhaps you should go to the hotel and lie down.”

Louis glares at her. Surprisingly, everyone else does as well.

Liam lifts her hands. “Perhaps we should _all_ ,” she says emphatically, like she’s speaking to someone who’s hard of hearing “go lie down. So we can _all_ go to stadium together afterwards.”

Harry, Zayn and Niall _all_ mutter their agreements. Louis has no idea what’s happening, and clearly no say in the matter. Maybe she fainted and this is all a dream. Maybe she’s dead. If so, she expected something more from the afterlife, starting maybe from a nicer setting and better general physical conditions, like being 6 feet tall, but Harry’s in it so she’ll take it.

When Louis stands up and starts walking to the exit, the thought of lying on a bed gets more appealing with each step. The quartet is mumbling in angry, hushed tones behind her, and she’s either worse off than she thought she was or she’s entered a parallel reality where things make less sense than usual. Whatever. She’s happy to take the front seat of their cab and ignore them.

It just gets weirder at the hotel. Liam checks them in in a flash, deposits a keycard in Louis palm and all but shoves her in the direction of the lifts.

“We can take the bags up ourselves,” Louis protests.

“No, no,” Liam says firmly and calls a lift. “The hotel staff will take care of it. You relax.”

Louis searches for some support from the others, but they all seem mesmerised by the changing floor numbers on top of the lift. Did they all get a paynotomy?

Five minutes and the most awkward lift ride of Louis’ life later, she can finally throw herself on the bed and forget about all this idiocy. “Wake me up when it’s time to go,” she calls out to Zayn, and isn’t conscious for long enough to hear the answer.

 

She wakes up after an hour and, with great relief, all her body parts feel in the right place again.

“You alive?” Zayn asks her, absently, without raising her eyes from the book in her hands. Louis is moved by her concern. After years of cohabitation, though, she’s used to only having her full attention in-between chapters.

“Yep, good as new. When are we supposed to leave?”

“Half an hour,” Zayn flips the page and nods, satisfied enough to lower the book. “You seem better, you got some colour back.”

Louis hums. “Mh-mh. Any news of Huey, Dewey and Liam?”

“Oh, they’ve already left. They figured it didn’t matter since we’re not all seated together.”

A pang of disappointment passes through her, but it’s quickly replaced by the same feeling that something’s fishy. “Wait, isn’t Liam supposed to seat with us?” And weren’t they supposed to _all_ go to the stadium together?

“No,” Zayn answers, a bit too hushed. At Louis’ frown, she continues with a big smile that really doesn’t become her. “Why don’t you go take a shower, to get all the heat off?”

“I’d love to. The hotel has apparently lost our luggage, though.” She makes a wide gesture with her arm, indicating the evident lack of suitcases.

“You just need your naked body to shower. You don’t need your luggage,” her voice gets more high-pitched with every word. “Why would you need your luggage?”

“To change my underwear?” Louis says, tentatively, her eyebrows almost reaching her hairline.

“I’m sure your underwear’s fine,” Zayn mumbles and sticks her nose back in her book.

Louis goes to take a shower. Maybe she’s still not completely fine. Maybe everything will get back to normal after it.

 

Zayn maintains an acceptable level of weirdness for the next hour, even though she keeps fidgeting and checking her phone. Is she getting Niall withdrawal symptoms? If yes, she needs to fucking chill.

The fishiness comes back in full force once they get outside the Arena de Amazonia. Precisely, when Zayn stops in front of a merch stand and states with shifty eyes, “I want, ah, a shirt.”

 “A shirt?” she inquires, sceptically. Are football shirts a new trend that Louis’ not aware of?

“A shirt,” Zayn confirms, then takes a look at the stand. “Balotelli’s.”

“Balotelli plays for Italy.”

“You’re always saying it’s the players, not the team, that matters.”

Louis is pretty sure she’s never said anything of that sort, but she rolls with it. “Okay. Let’s go buy Balotelli’s shirt.”

“No!” Zayn yells, making a couple of people turn toward them. “You go in. I’ll be right there.”

“But-” Louis tries to protest, but Zayn interrupts her.

“I don’t want you to miss the start.”

Louis checks her watch. “There’s half an hour left,” she says, and puts a hand on Zayn’s arm, motioning her toward the bloody stand.

Zayn stays still and licks her lips in concentration. “This is a private thing for me. I’d like to do it alone.”

“Have you completely lost your mind?” What the hell is going on today? Louis just wants to watch the fucking match in peace, why is everything so difficult?

“Just go,” Zayn begs her, and gives her a timid push toward the stadium. People have really got to stop telling Louis to _just go_ and shoving her places. She’s a person. She has _feelings_.

“Okay,” she yields. “I’ll see you inside, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn reassures her with a big smile.

Louis doesn’t feel reassured at all. She just goes.

 

The only good thing about all this fucked up, absurd situation is that, no matter what her unhinged mates do, Louis still gets to watch England play a World Cup match. Which is fucking brilliant _and_ a dream come true, so she won’t let a stupid shirt or any other article of merchandising ruin her evening. The stadium’s already crammed and vibrating with excitement and, as much as she loved being in the broadcast booth, nothing compares to cheering from the stands, surrounded by fans, all united by the same incredible sense of belonging.

She lets the buzz of the crowd fill her, all the colours in the stands making her dizzy with happiness, in stark contrast to this morning, and it could hardly get better than this. Well, hardly, but...

Before she can dwell further into her thoughts, she hears an all too recognizable low timbre mumbling _sorrys_ and _desculpes_. When she spots a pair of gangly legs making her way to her seat, she does feel a bit faint. She’s glad she’s sitting down because, two sorrys later, Harry appears in all her fedora-wearing glory. And trips on absolutely nothing.

Louis reaches out to catch her hips as she stumbles forward, while Harry places her hands on Louis’ shoulders and plops down beside her. Fuck. That’s what it was all about. Louis feels like a fool, like the happiest fool on the planet. 

“Oops, again,” she says, beaming at her, her hands sliding down Louis’ arms till she can intertwine their fingers.

“Hi, again,” Louis replies, squeezing their joined hands. She doesn’t knows if she should give in to the joy that’s creeping up on her at the edges or, if she’s actually fainted and this is all a trick of her subconscious. If so, her subconscious’ ace and she never wants to leave it.

“We all panicked this morning,” Harry starts, “because we hadn’t swapped the tickets yet.” Oh, that. Makes sense? “Then we realised there would be a different name on your ticket and went to the stadium to ask if we could get it re-printed, which we obviously couldn’t, then we just hoped you, uhm,” Harry cringes, and it’s adorable, “wouldn’t notice. Did you?”

Louis shakes her head. She held a ticket with Niall Horan printed on it for the whole ten minutes it took from outside to her seat and didn’t notice a thing. Maybe this really is a dream.

Louis’ surprised expression makes Harry giggle. “Really? I mean, they do say it’s all downhill after you turn twenty, and you’re well past that,” she teases, earning a glance and a pout from Louis.  “But are you okay, now, yes?”she asks with real concern, freeing a hand and lifting it up to Louis’ cheek and stroking it gently.

Louis can’t nod fast enough. “I’m great,” she blurts out. Then, softer, because this is going to be sappy either way, she adds “Even better now.”

“I’m glad.” Harry’s face splits in her biggest frog-smile, and Louis had missed it so much she could burst. “Do you still want to talk?”

“Yes, sure, of course,” she answers, her voice speeding up.

“Okay. Give me the condensed version, so we can kiss and make up and enjoy the match,” Harry urges her.

Harry’s perfect, she’s absolutely perfect for Louis and she can’t cock it up again. She has everything she wants to say down to a science with how much she’s rehearsed it in her head. Too bad that what comes out of her mouth is more an incoherent rant than a carefully prepared speech. “I’m an idiot. I freaked out. The meeting you randomly thing kind of threw me off. The Brazil thing threw me off a lot. I wasn’t planning on lying to you long term, I didn’t plan anything at all. I wrote back to you because you were upset and I didn’t want you to be. I like you very much a lot, online and offline, and I want to have your babies.”

Well. Maybe that’s a bit excessive. It does the trick, anyway, Harry dissolving in giggles and watching her with enough fondness to cure someone from a hypoglycaemic coma.

“Always getting ahead of yourself, Tomlinson,” Harry scolds lightly and pressed her lips to Louis’.

“I imagined most of the stuff you’ve just said,” she tells Louis after the kiss. “I just needed some time to, uhm, process.” Her last word’s covered by a loud cheer from the crowd, the players probably stepping on the field. “We’ll talk more later.”

“But we’re fine?”

“Yes, Louise, we’re fine,” she nudges her on the shoulder. “Watch the match now, do your thing.”

Louis nods and turns toward the field with a relieved sigh, taking out her moleskine and pencil to write down the highlights and if anything worth telling on tape comes to her mind.

It’s a good match. England’s a bit shite, but to be honest Italy is not faring much better. Italy scores near half time, only for Sturridge to equalise less than two minutes later. They are hopeful during the half-time break, Louis showing Harry what she’s written and Harry commenting earnestly, showing an extensive knowledge of the game. “We should do a collaboration,” Louis tells her, voice full of awe, when Harry points out that Verrati’s assist for Marchisio had been set up by a dummy by Pirlo, such a blink-and-you-miss-it moment that Louis herself almost hadn’t noticed.

“Sure,” Harry replies, her dimples deeper than Louis’ ever seen them. “We could do a series. Too bad the title ‘Two girls, one cup’ is already taken.”

Fuck. Louis wants to _marry her_.

She settles for kissing her a lot, and the rush and relief she feels are so overpowering that she can’t even be mad when Balotelli scores again. She tries to stay focused on the match and take as many notes as she can, because she always regrets it when she doesn’t, but, when it becomes clear that it’s a lost cause for England, she just wants to get out of there, Harry’s hand resting casually against her side, fingers spread under her t-shirt, serving as a sweet reminder of what may come next. Namely, she and Harry, she hopes.

She gets into it again only when Thiago Motta wins a free kick and Pirlo prepares to hit it. The distance would be too much for many but, if there’s someone who can do it, it’s him. With two minutes of stoppage time left, the chances for England to equalise are basically nil, so Louis almost wishes for Pirlo to make it. At least, she’ll see a spectacular goal.

“You know, they call him ‘The Architect’,” she whispers in Harry’s ear as he prepares for the kick.

It doesn’t get it, bouncing off the crossbar, but it’s still a fucking masterpiece.

“I can see why,” Harry breathes back, nudging Louis’ cheek with her nose.

Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes.

“Haz, we’ve lost,” Louis says, full of resolve. “Let’s skip the post-match traffic and get the fuck out of here.”

Harry stares at her, suppressing a smile. “You sure?”

“You bet,” she answers, and stands up.

 

*

 

It still takes them forty minutes to get back, during which they try to keep their hands off each other and fail miserably, multiple times, much to the driver’s chagrin.

“Clothes off,” Louis says as soon as her room’s door closes behind her, and Harry throws her sundress and bra over her head while Louis hurries to do the same with her own clothes, but Harry stops them before she has a chance to take her trousers off.

Harry grabs her bare waist and pushes her against the bed till she’s lying down, then pops open the button of her shorts and yanks them down, peppering Louis’ tummy with kisses after she’s dropped them on the floor and come back up. She keeps rising till she can take a nipple into her mouth, sucking on it almost reverently, and Louis has to turn her head to her side to stifle a moan. Right in her line of vision there are two suitcases, one which is definitely neither Louis’ nor Zayn’s.

“Harry,” she calls, voice shrill and stunned. Harry looks up at her with moist lips, which doesn’t help with thinking properly. “Did you arrange to room with me again? That’s what the fuss was about?”

“Yes,” Harry replies easily, placing a kiss on her sternum. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Louis snorts, then, feverishly, she adds, “Lie on your back.”

Harry goes, pliant, and Louis straddles her. They stare at each other for a while, like they’re having a full conversation and like they’ll never need words again, and Louis wants to give her everything, everything she can give, because Harry deserves nothing less. She lowers her head to kiss her, deep and thorough, then moves to lap over one of her breasts, taking bits of skin gently between her teeth, then leaving long stripes with her tongue over the faint teeth marks. While she’s mouthing at one, she strokes the other’s nipple with her palm, then switches between them. When Harry arches her back against her mouth, Louis figures it’s time to move to other areas.

“What do you want, Haz?” she asks, while sucking a bruise on her collarbone. Harry doesn’t answer, she just whimpers, her breath ragged and throaty. Louis can be patient. She keeps biting her skin, one hand coming up to thumb at a wet and sensitive nipple, then tells her, conversationally, “I’d quite like to finish what I started last week, if that’s okay with you.”

Harry is already nodding before she finishes the sentence. Louis wants to hear her talk.

“What, Harry?” she pinches the nipple between thumb and forefinger, lightly, not enough to actually hurt, but enough to make Harry’s back arch.

Louis raises her gaze to look at her, and she’s biting her bottom lip, eyes closed shut, one arm thrown over her head to hold the back of the pillow. She’s absolutely spectacular. “Open your eyes, love,” she urges, making little rolling motions on the hard flesh between her fingers.

Harry lets out a deep moan, but she does it. Her pupils are so blown there’s almost no green left in them, her lashes blinking fast. She groans and slips a hand in between Louis’ hair, guiding her up till their mouths meet. Harry kisses her, sloppy and desperate, the hand migrating from her hair to her bum.

When they come up for air, Louis attaches her lips to Harry’s ear, nibbling at it. “Do you want me to touch you?” she hisses, right into it, and slides a leg in between Harry’s, gently but rhythmically pressing her thigh to Harry’s mound. “Lick you, maybe?” she applies a bit more force with her leg, Harry’s hips coming up to meet her, trying to get any real release from it. “Or you could come just like this, couldn’t you? With your knickers still on?”

Harry’s nails dig deeper into her arse.

“Or you could just tell me,” Louis finishes, and trails a stream of kisses along Harry’s jaw -that jaw is an architectural miracle- until she reaches her mouth, which is an entirely different kind of miracle. She leaves a quick peck on it, which makes Harry raise her head to follow her, aching for more, but Louis is busy licking a stripe on her neck, first on its side, then on its centre, the skin vibrating under her lips every time Harry moans.

She’s completely stopped any movement with her leg and her hand on Harry’s breast, and Harry keeps rocking her hips up, searching for even the tiniest bit of friction. When Louis starts thinking she’s never going to answer, she does.

“Fuck, Lou. Do whatever you want,” she breathes huskily, and Louis _feels_ it more than hears it. She was going for something more specific, but she can work with that. She’s ace at doing whatever she wants.

She gets up on her knees, a plan already forming in her head. There are so many things she wants to do to her. So many things she _will_ do to her. They have time. _They have time_. With Harry under her, staring at her like someone in a hurry stares at a red light, it finally downs on her that there’s no expiration date on this thing anymore. God, she’s going to make her come so hard.

“Turn around, then, babe.”

Harry narrows her eyes, but obliges, settling her head on her crossed arms, her body tense in anticipation.

“Relax for me, yeah?” Louis asks, soft, while tracing the lacy seam of her panties, the way it follows the perfect curve of her arse and frames her faint tan line, the skin shivering lightly under her fingertip. Harry’s so fucking responsive and Louis wants to discover every place she can reach of her. She moves her hand and crooks a finger under the hem, her mouth coming up to kiss into the dimples at the bottom of Harry’s spine. As she drags the knickers down, her tongue travels with them, tracing small circular patterns on the newly exposed skin. Harry holds her breath as Louis licks the upper edge of her slit, but, as she’s starting to thrust her hips up, Louis detaches herself, quickly getting hold of the panties and sliding them off completely. Harry tries to move her legs to help her, but her movements are too frantic to be useful and she just ends up with her legs spread further apart. Louis calls it a success anyway. She drops the triangle of fabric on the floor before getting back to Harry’s buttocks, kissing them all over. When Harry seems a bit more relaxed under her, she spreads them, and blows gently in between them. Harry groans, low and throaty, and grinds up into her face. _Aren’t you full of surprises._

“Can I?” Louis inquires, each word sending air on the sensitive skin, and making Harry quiver. “Is it your first-”

“Yes,” Harry squeals into her arms, “First. But. _Please_.”

_Well, if you say please._

Louis puts just the tip of her tongue on Harry, moving it in tiny, lazy circles around her rim. The more Harry’s breath evens out, the more she flattens her tongue against her, switching from circles to stripes. When she passes it on her hole, Harry’s body arches so beautifully that Louis can’t help repeating the motion again, and again, and again, always teasing to slip into it.

Louis feels a foot nudging her leg. “Fuck, Lou,” Harry groans, her words muffled into the pillow she’s resting on. “Just do it, would you?”

Louis licks a line up to her back, because she’s not one to take orders, before giving her what she wants. She tries to be as gentle as possible, as to not overwhelm her, her tongue sliding in just enough to be perceivable. She curls it upwards, then goes in again, a bit deeper, and repeats it till her movements get frantic, all her technique replaced with a sloppier in-and-out, her fingers gripping on Harry’s arse like she’d fly away if she were to let go. Harry’s rocking her hips without rhythm, half pushing harder against Louis’ mouth, half searching for some friction on the mattress, and Louis can almost feel her clench against nothingness.

Louis drags the fingers of one hand down till she reaches her folds, the wetness making her moan against Harry’s skin, while Harry tries to follow her movements and bring the pressure where it will give her some release.

As satisfactory as it would be to make her come like this, it was never Louis’ plan. Just as Harry’s moans are getting hoarser and closer one to the other, she raises up abruptly and removes her hands, straightening up and catching sight of Harry’s last thrust again the covers. Louis swallows, her toes curling almost painfully.

“Raise your hips,” she tells Harry, who has turned around with a pout on her face at the loss of contact. Her voice comes out a lot less steady than she intended.

Harry moves her legs and puts some weight on her knees, her torso still almost flat against the bed.

Louis bends down to kiss the inside of her thigh. “Spread them a bit, love.”

When Harry’s exactly as she wanted her, Louis turns to lie on her back and shift till she’s under her.

“Fucking hell,” Harry gasps, her hips buckling as Louis lifts her head to lick swiftly against her. She tastes salty, and Louis wants to devour her.

Harry pushes up on her arms till she can meet Louis’ eyes. “Are you,” is all she gets out. They both remain still, their eyes glued together and, judging by Harry’s expression and how her mouth is still hanging open, Louis is a fucking genius. No pun intended. 

“Fuck my face, Harry Styles,” Louis tells her as solemnly as she can, mindlessly running her fingers across the back of Harry’s thighs. “Mh?”

Harry nods, her curls undulating in waves, her lips parted, red and puffy. She’s been biting them. Louis presses harder on her thighs.

“I’ll tap you twice on the back if it gets too much, okay?” Louis demonstrates, patting her in the least sexual way she can manage. Harry nods again, and finally, finally lowers her hips to meet her.

Louis takes a second to just be there, completely enveloped in her, her scent and her heat more intoxicating than any liquor, then flattens her tongue and starts giving soft, wide strokes to the center of her folds, coming closer and closer to her clit but never touching it. Harry makes tiny rocking motions above her, completely following her rhythm.

Louis switches to just her tip and draws spirals on her, moving it to the side till she can mouth at her labia and take a fold gently between her lips, sliding them through all its length, before licking all over it, faster, and Harry has to speed up her motions to keep up with her. Her panting quickens as well, the sound she makes getting breathier and more high-pitched.

Louis then does the same thing to the other side, passing her tongue on the skin behind Harry’s entrance to reach it. The moisture makes her sloppier, less harmonic and firm, and she sucks and laps at it, trying to keep it soft without neglecting even a fragment of her sensitive skin. Harry grinds down harder, even though there’s nothing to get friction against, and Louis moves a hand from where its sunk in the flesh between Harry’s thighs and buttocks to her centre, circling a fingertip against her opening, eliciting a loud groan from her. Louis’ entire body trembles just from hearing it, and her nipples harden, like pulled by a string. Her feet shift helplessly on the mattress, unable to stay still.

She pushes the finger as far up as she can with her wrist bent that way. The angle’s awkward, but Harry’s walls give in as if they were foam, and she lets out a string of barely audible _ohs_ when Louis curls it, and they get louder and louder when she leads her tongue where her finger disappears into her and drags it all around her entrance.

As soon as her tongue enters her, Harry brings her arms to lie beside her feet, arching her back and giving Louis’ mouth an even better access. Louis removes the hand that’s not inside Harry and lifts it to one of her turgid breasts before she’s tempted to touch herself, and crosses her legs to try to ease the throbbing of her pussy.

Now that she has more leverage, Harry’s thrusts get more focused and precise, fucking herself shallowly on Louis’ finger and tongue. Louis figures she’s probably tortured her enough, and removes her tongue, making Harry’s grunt of protest die on her lips when she replaces it with another finger. She kisses a path to Harry’s clit, then paints circles around it, closing in on it little by little, as slowly as she can get herself to, at the same time as she rubs her thumb around Harry’s nipple, the skin creasing tighter under her touch.

Harry’s hips push down with increasing force as she places gentle kisses on her swollen bud, sticking out just the tip of the tongue to tease it. Harry keeps grinding and grinding, but Louis won’t take her into her mouth. Harry is close, it’s evident from her noises, hoarse groans and acute shrills and everything in between, and the way she’s lost all her reserve and is just taking what she wants, setting the pace for Louis’ fingers and shoving her clit between her lips, and Louis is taken by the overwhelming urge to _see_ her.  She slides her fingers out of her and uses them to pat her back, twice, as she’d told her.

Harry stops immediately, and scrambles to get off of her, but Louis gets a hold of her hips and blocks her while she’s still straddling her torso.

“Too much enthusiasm?” Harry exhales gingerly, her chest heaving and glistening with sweat, and covers Louis’ hands with hers.

“Just needed a breather,” Louis lies, because telling your partner you want to put off their orgasm is not particularly polite. 

Harry’s gaze is glued to Louis’ mouth, and she must look a proper mess, Harry’s juices spread all over her chin and lips. She smiles wide at Harry, her eyes crinkling, and this is enough for Harry to bend down and kiss her, moaning when she can savour herself mixed with the taste of Louis’ mouth. She slides her hands from on top of Louis’ to her sides, caressing the point where her waist narrows, the soft skin just below her boobs, her pronounced clavicles, till she settles them on her neck, her thumbs grazing behind Louis’ ears.

Louis pushes on her hipbones till they’re flipped, Harry on her back with Louis lying between her open legs, their lips still attached. When they separate and Louis shifts down to kiss under her belly button, Harry taps her shoulder with one finger till Louis raises her head. “Lou.”

“What?” Louis asks with an uncertain smile, their eyes locked.

Harry dampens her lips. “Stop beating around the bush.”

Louis stifles a giggle in the space between her inked laurels. “How long have you wanted to say that?” she asks, then bites down on the skin under her and keeps nibbling till she reaches her soft curls. She spreads Harry’s thighs more, her legs pliant and softly quivering, then places a hand on her pelvic bone and uses the other to open her lips. She goes straight for the clit this time, first with her thumb then with her mouth, taking it in, alternating sucking and swirling the tip of her tongue against it, while two of her fingers enter her again, making Harry lift up to meet them. She takes them out right away and, now that they’re lubricated enough, she brings them down along her crack till she grazes Harry’s puckered hole with her fingertips. She circles them around, their wetness easing their movements, then puts one just over her hole, flat on her skin, barely pushing in.

“In,” Harry sobs. “Oh my God, go in.”

Louis smirks around Harry’s clit, and goes in. Harry comes when she’s not even a knuckle deep, her legs closing in around Louis’ frame and her hips buckling as she rides out her orgasm, one hand threading through Louis hair and keeping her there, not with enough pressure to be unpleasant, but enough for the message to be clear. Louis is more than ecstatic to oblige.

After a minute or so, Harry tugs gently and Louis rises up till their lips can touch, both of them moving to lie on their sides and enveloping their arms around each other. They share soft pecks, Harry still trying to catch her breath and Louis, well, happy to give her tongue a break.

“Think you can come again?” Louis asks between kisses and, when Harry nods, slides down a hand between them to lie over Harry. She puts three fingers directly over her clit and moves them in spirals, clockwise and anti-clockwise, applying as much pressure as she can, and Harry rocks her pelvis against them, legs spread and knees bent. Louis concentrates on her face, her parted, swollen lips, and her almost completely shut eyes, only a narrow slit visible under her fluttering lashes, and the little grunts that escape her with every thrust of her hips.

It takes her nothing to come, her eyes opening wide and locking with Louis’  while her entire body vibrates with pleasure. When she comes down from her orgasm, she brings her hand to still Louis’, and Louis lifts her fingers up to her mouth.

She takes them in, one at a time, sucking thoroughly till Harry’s taste is all she can feel. Harry watches her, gaze stuck on her lips, her breath uneven. When Louis’ done with the last of them, Harry attaches their mouths again, and starts pushing Louis’ knickers off. She can’t believe she’s still wearing them. Louis bats Harry’s hands away and takes them off herself in one swift motion, throwing them across the room.

Harry looks at her funny, tracing designs on Louis’ thigh with a fingertip. “Are you in a hurry?”

Louis is so wet it’s embarrassing. She has a right to be in a hurry.

Harry moves the finger to her folds in up and down strokes, the friction just getting her hornier and more desperate. “God, Haz, stop fucking-”

Harry slips two fingers straight into her and curls them, a shit-eating grin on her face. “But I’ve just started.”

Louis lets out an incoherent mixture between an involuntary giggle and a very voluntary groan. What has she gotten herself into.

 

*

 

“We lost,” Louis realises while settling back on the bed after they’ve showered and shared enough orgasms to last them at least a couple of hours.

“Yep.” Harry lies down next to her, covering them with the duvet and draping an arm across Louis’ waist. “It was still a good match, though.”

“Mh, we could have not scored at all.” She caresses Harry’s arm absent-mindedly. “You know I’ve never left a stadium before full time before today?”

Harry hums. “It doesn’t matter. They were extraordinary circumstances, what with the ten days of worsening sexual frustration.”

“I think it matters,” Louis retorts. “I would have left with you even if all you ever wanted to do was hold hands.”

Harry beams up at her.

“I mean,” Louis continues. “My clitoris probably would have fallen off sooner rather than later,” Harry giggles and gives her a light slap on the hip, “but it would have been worth it.”

Harry joins their mouths together. “Always thought you had a way with words, _donnysoldier91_ ,” she grins. “So much I almost couldn’t believe you were just a lowly youtuber in real life.”

God, Louis should really start expecting it. “I’ll start to keep tally of your insulting comments and you’ll get proper punishments, if you don’t watch it.”

“Like what?” She places her lips by Louis’ ear shell. “Will you spank me, Lou?”

“You wish,” Louis answers, aiming for cheeky, but Harry just nibbles at her ear. _Oh, ideas, ideas._ “I’ll think of something for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Don’t know about you, but I’m not leaving this bed for the next 36 hours.”

Harry lifts her head up with an adorable pout on her face. “We need to go see the meeting of the waters. It’s wonderful. When are we ever going back to Manaus again?”

“You make a valid point, young Harriet,” Louis sighs. “But you know we’re not going to see each other for almost two weeks after tomorrow, right?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She brings her thumb to Louis’ bottom lip, tracing it absently back and forth. When Louis parts her lips and lets it slide in, sucking on its tip, Harry groans. “We still need to go. But, like, if you wanted to make the visit shorter...”

“Yeah?” Louis prompts around Harry’s finger.

Harry smirks, taking it out. “I could be persuaded,” she finishes and kisses her.

That’s alright. Louis has a way with words.

 

*

 

“Hiiiiiii everybody. Welcome to The Tommo Way,” greets a voice that’s once again not Louis’. Harry sits on a couch in the middle of the frame, a big smile on her face.

“Have you started without me, love?” Louis calls from another room, her words getting louder as she gets closer.

“You were taking forever,” Harry explains, shrugging. “And we all know who’s truly your fans’ favourite, don’t we?” She winks at the camera.

“Yes,” Louis replies, appearing in the shot and taking a seat next to Harry. “It’s Zayn.”

Harry nods gravely. “She has a genetic advantage over all of us.”

“Right, we’ve been trying to send her back to her home planet for many years now, but we can’t convince them to take Niall as well.”

“You know I’m right here, yeah?” Niall interrupts from behind the camera. “What with me bein’ the appointed cameraman and all?”

“Nialler, you’re a present in all of our lives,” Louis tells her with sentiment. “But a running joke’s a running joke. Anyway,” she sits up straighter, “there’s actually a reason for this video.”

“The World Cup,” Harry shouts excitedly, lifting an arm in the air.

Louis glares at her. “Spoilsport. I was trying to drag it out a bit, create some suspense.”

“You’re a football commentator and it’s June 2018, what else could you be making a video about?” Harry asks with a grin, bringing a hand to the nape of Louis’ neck.

“Well, why are you even in this video?” she fires back, gripping one of Harry’s thighs.

Harry beams. “Because everyone’s always asking to see your lovely spouse, Lou.”

“God,” someone groans from beside Niall. “Are they doing their weird fighting-foreplay thing again?”

“Yes,” Niall chirps. “’s fantastic. Like watching free porn.”

“Zayn, stop interrupting us, we’re trying to do a job here,” Harry scolds, waving a finger at her.

“Good grief. Well, cut this part out when you edit it,” Zayn says easily. What follows is an impressive variety of slurping sounds, accompanied by Harry and Louis both staring directly into the camera, one still smiling and the other ready to claw her eyes out.

“Ladies, let’s keep it PG,” Louis hisses. “If you’re quite finished, we can resume where we left off.”

“The World Cup,” Harry supplies. “In Russia, wonderful this time of the year.”

“Do you just want to do it all yourself, Harriet?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry laughs and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Go on.”

“Thank you.” Louis adjusts her shoulders. “I just wanted to announce to all of you, my loyal disciples, that I’ll be working as the main commentator for BBC sport for this World Cup. I’m pretty stoked about it.”

“Also, England’s looking good this year,” Harry adds.

“Oh yeah,” Louis confirms, smirking at her, “we might even win a game this time.” She faces the camera again, “As always, let me know what you think of our team and of all the others, and give me your feedback on the matches and the comment. Remember that whatever the pundit says is not my responsibility, as I have been frequently reminded that I‘m not allowed to insult nor physically silence him or her.” She pauses, and takes a breath. “Now, moving onto the question that mostly interests a part of our, uhm, fandom, if you like,” she clears he throat, “No, Harry’s unfortunately not coming with me.”

Harry nods with a sympathetic frown. “Conflicting schedules.”

 “You know,” Louis starts, turning toward her, “I actually planned on recreating our time in Brazil, but big chef here’s too busy shooting the new season of The Great British Bakeoff.” She trains her eyes back at the camera. “Abandoned for pies with soggy bottoms. What a route.”

“To be honest, our time in Brazil wasn’t an all-around walk in the park,” Harry points out, her fingers rubbing circles against Louis’ neck. “We had so many nicer things happening afterwards that Brazil will always feel bittersweet.”

“I may be sentimental, but I’d give anything to relive England-Italy,” Louis confesses earnestly, and realises that this whole video will probably have to be reshot from scratch, way too sappy and personal to be thrown to the masses. She gestures to Niall that they’ve gone irremediably off track, and Niall salutes her and leaves the room.

“Ah, England-Italy,” Harry raises her eyes to the ceiling. “That was a good day.”

Louis nods. “We were younger.”

“And so in love,” Harry continues, intertwining their fingers.

“And we didn’t even know yet.”

“And, God, all that sex,” Harry exhales dreamily, and squeezes her hand. Louis knows what she means. Not that their current sex life isn’t satisfactory, quite the opposite actually, but the thrill of discovering a body for the first time, the way the other moans and moves, what they liked before and the new things they found out they liked together, that’s something they’ll never get back.

“And the bloody meeting of the waters,” Louis says, knowing that it will make Harry laugh and get her mind off their first time together, because reminiscing that always leads to shagging, and shagging in front of a rolling camera is still not on their to-do list.

They stare at each other, both too aware of what the other is thinking after years of living in each other’s pockets. “And the football,” they finish together, with identical grins on their faces.

 _Football_ , Louis thinks as Harry kisses her, lazily, like they have all the time in the world. _The beautiful game, indeed._

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://theprizeofcoolness.tumblr.com) if you want to chat about Girl!Direction. Or just One Direction. Or just girls.


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